Shadows of the Mind
by Azina Zelle
Summary: Before Dr. Jonathan Crane became the Scarecrow, he was a bullied kid struggling to survive on his wits in the darkest parts of Gotham City. But he comes to realize that perhaps the darkest region yet is within the depths of his own mind.
1. Scarecrow

"_**Shadows of the Mind"**_

_**By Azina Zelle**_

The wind blew bitter cold that February afternoon through the Shackborough Street. As long as Jonathan Crane had remembered he had hated that street. Jonathan was a lank, frail boy in his teens with mesmerizing blue eyes, dark brown hair and glasses. He had been crossing this street ever since he was a young boy because it was the most direct way from school to home. It was not an uncommon sight seeing drug dealers peddling their wares or several of Carmine Falcone's thugs coming by to teach someone a lesson. The first time that had happened Jonathan in his curiosity was careful enough to keep out of sight, but followed as a thug grabbed a man – who seemed to be an honest shopkeeper.

"Didn't pay yer dues and he's sick of waiting – no more," the thug grunted.

He grabbed the shopkeeper and, completely oblivious to the shopkeeper's begging and pleading, dragged him into a filthy back alley and shot him several times until he crumpled to the dank ground. Jonathan didn't know whether or not what the shopkeeper said was true about his wife and his many children depending on him – he figured if it was true they would soon enough hear of his death.

This afternoon, however, there were none of Falcone's thugs coming to pay someone a visit and just a few drug addicts gazed bleary-eyed from their hovels of flimsy cardboard boxes. Though it seemed less threatening than when the street was humming, an icy chill ran through Jonathan and he pulled his thin sweater closer to him. He lived alone with his mother in an apartment on the west end, about twenty blocks from the Narrows. It was not a good neighborhood, but it was cheap and his mother worked long hard hours to pay the rent and what little food they could afford. Luxuries such as a coat Jonathan had to do without.

"Hey you, Stick-man!"

Jonathan quickly raised his eyes from the ground to the voice. A stout, muscular teenage boy stood before him with his arms crossed. It was Stan Wekson, who not only was very popular, but relished tormenting the nerds. Stan was accompanied by his cronies who took more delight in holding and pinning victims rather than beating them. They all were grinning smugly.

"Hey, Stick-man! Answer me!"

"My name is Jon –"

Stan slapped him hard across the cheek. Jonathan felt both cheeks burning brightly and he fought to keep angry tears welling up within his depthless blue eyes.

"I slapped you, Stick-man, like my girlfriend, because you look more like a girl, right boys?"

His cronies laughed loudly and Jonathan could hear his heart thundering in his chest.

"If you were a man I would have punched you, but you're just a girl, worthy of just being slapped. If I punched you, I'd probably break you, you're so thin and weak!"

"You know you've contradicted yourself," said Jonathan, desperately trying to keep his emotions in check. "You call me a girl, yet you call me a Stick-man. You admitted I'm a man."

Stan's cronies stopped laughing and Stan menacingly came close to Jonathan, roughly grabbing his sweater and tearing a hole in it.

"You think you're smart with me, eh? Well, maybe if I knock the brains out a bit you'll be less smart."

"Yeah, Stan! Knock the stuffin' out of him," screamed one of the cronies.

Stan stopped, his arm half-poised for the blow, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Stuffing, I like that! You will be Stick-man no more – you'll be – you'll be Scarecrow! Fitting, eh fellas, for someone so skinny and weak?"

"Perfect, Stan," whooped one of his cronies.

Jonathan couldn't hear what anyone said next because a blinding pain exploded in his jaw as Stan delivered the promised punch.

* * *

Jonathan pressed a packet of crushed ice on to his eye and cheek, wincing in pain. He hoped it wouldn't look too bad by the time his mother got home. He knew how much she hated him getting into fights, whether he was to blame or not. The cold felt good and after twenty minutes the swelling had diminished enough he could open his left eye and could begin his studies. 

Through the window he could hear a distant hum and the faint rumbling of the Wayne elevated train roaring through. Their apartment was close enough the windows would

slightly rattle and the lights flicker. At least the close proximity of the train made it easier for his mother to get to work.

Jonathan opened his book on the kitchen table and brushed off some of the debris that had collected on page 248. Sharlene and Jenny thought it would be a funny prank if while he was talking with his teacher in biology class they'd dump his book in the sink,

pour water and throw some leaves and mud on it from the insect jar. The book was still a little damp and Jonathan resigned himself it probably always would smell a bit like mold.

The overhead lamp flickered – the 8 p.m. train had passed. His mother would be coming in on the 8:20 p.m. train. The clock ticked away; it was partially faded from the grime and slightly warped from the heat being so close to the stove. The door slammed at 8:30 p.m. Jonathan heard his mother's shuffling feet. Her brown hair was beginning to be streaked with some gray and exhaustion was in her brown eyes. There were stray threads in different colors that still stuck to her plain blue dress – leftovers from her long hours in the sweatshop. Not raising her eyes to him, she muttered:

"So, Jon, how was your day?"

"It was okay," he lied, trying to bury his face in his smelly book.

Obviously she was too tired or was too busy yet to closely see his face, for she was busy yanking the pot out from the cluttered cupboard and setting it on the stove to boil. It was when she had a moment to sit down Jonathan knew he was in for it – and he was right.

"Jon – Jonathan look at me! What have you been doing? Have you been fighting?"

"It wasn't a fight – they were doing all the hitting," he muttered.

"Jon, you listen to me, you are not to fight with those boys anymore, even if they are provoking it – promise me."

Jonathan bit his lip to the point of nearly drawing blood. He was angry she was taking their side when he had hoped she would be holding and comforting him for what they had done to him. He was angry and disgusted at his mother for that.

"Promise me!"

She touched his chin and it was on the edge of the bruise where Stan had beaten him earlier and he winced.

"I'm sorry Jon, but I'm just afraid they'll kill you."

"I'm not afraid of them – of any of them," cried Jonathan, trying to fight back angry tears.

"Well, maybe you should be, you know fear is not always such a bad thing, not if it keeps you out of trouble."

She went to the freezer and got a fresh ice pack and threw it on the table.

"Put that on and give me your sweater. I'll mend it."

* * *

The clock ticked to 10:30 p.m. Jonathan took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, finally deciding to close his book and call it quits on his homework for the night. The dishes were in the sink and the light glowed dimly from the living room – his mother was still up. 

"Mom, I'm going to bed now."

But she already was asleep. She was partially slumped in the faded green armchair. The needle had fallen onto her lap with his sweater still sprawled across her. She had fallen asleep in mid-stitch she was so exhausted. As tired as Jonathan was, he could imagine how teased he'd be coming to school with a gaping hole in the only sweater he owned. Gently he pulled the sweater from under his mother's limp arms, hoping he wouldn't wake her, and picked up the needle. Stan's cruel taunting at how girlish he was rang in his ears. Surely Stan was right doing "woman's work" like sewing.

_Stan's an imbecile. I'm just sewing up my sweater. Nothing womanly in doing that._

Quickly he whip-stitched the hole closed. It was nothing fancy and certainly nothing as tidy or clean as what his mother could do, but it would hold. Jonathan secured the knot and took the sweater with him to bed. As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and the odd shadows that would creep across the ceiling as the Wayne Train hissed and roared by every fifteen minutes, the words kept running through his head:

"_I'm not afraid of them – of any of them."_

"_Well, maybe you should be, you know fear is not always such a bad thing, not if it keeps you out of trouble."_

But he was afraid of something, deep within the darkness of his mind – and he couldn't reach it.


	2. New Patient

Genevieve Chesterton had great doubts at her doctor Dr. Steven Westmeyer's recommendation. She had been to many so-called "quacks" before and in her estimation Westmeyer and this other doctor he had recommended was just yet another in a long list of doctors that couldn't help her. Her fine leather purse was crammed with a variety of pill bottles she'd take at different intervals throughout the day. Genevieve Chesterton had, as she said to her friends and colleagues, many worries and needed to calm her nerves. What she didn't mention to them was often she would get flustered and suffer frequent bouts of anxiety attacks, irrational waves of fear and there times where it felt her heart was ready to pound out of her chest.

What she couldn't understand was why she was experiencing these distressing and sometimes painful bouts. She seemed to have all the comforts a wealthy widow could enjoy: opulent furs, beautiful cars, jewelry cases filled with jewels, plenty of cash to buy whatever whim possessed her and of course an entourage of friends. But amid the pleasures and comforts, the occasional panic attack would come, at first rarely – then more frequently, to the point where she sought the medical help of the young but brilliant Dr. Westmeyer.

He filled order after order of medication and ran a battery of medical tests, but as all the tests came back negative and she proved to be perfectly healthy, Westmeyer finally shook his head.

"There is only so much I can do for you, Mrs. Chesterton. But you see, my expertise is in the body. You need someone whose expertise is in the mind"

Genevieve Chesterton round, matronly face flushed with anger.

"Are you saying all this pain and discomfort I'm feeling is all in my mind?"

"I'm not saying it's totally in your mind, Mrs. Chesterton. In fact, the way the mind can affect the body is as real – even more so – than any physical ailment. I'm going to recommend a psychiatrist to you. He's upcoming in the field and brilliant, a close colleague and friend of mine. He will help you in any possible way he can."

Westmeyer wrote his name and handed it to Mrs. Chesterton. She took the paper suspiciously into her bejeweled hand.

"You know I don't believe in such mind-doctors Dr. Westmeyer. I think it's all nonsense and a good waste of money."

"I think if anyone could help you, he can. He is quite unlike the other psychiatrists – but I think he could help you more than most. His speciality is in Fear."

"So you say – then I guess I should look into him, just this once."

She crumpled the piece of paper into her fine leather purse next to her numerous pill bottles and had all but forgotten about the doctor, that is until her next panic attack, which was the most brutal yet. It happened when she was seated within her opulent apartment, on her lush red velvet sofa reading the latest romance novel by Angeline Calency. Suddenly the room began to spin, her heart thundered in her chest and a terrible crushing weight made it almost unbearable to breathe. She knew this wasn't a heart attack. Westmeyer had run many tests and her heart was as healthy as 20-year-old girl at the peak of her health. No, it was something else.

Desperately she fumbled for the bottle in her purse, opened it and as her breath became short and ragged, and her hand cold and sweaty, the bottle slipped and the pills scattered like tiny white confetti on the deep maroon rug. She bent down to reach the pills, but she was almost out of breath, almost about to pass out.

_Call Gotham Hospital_, she thought.

_No!_ came another, odd, strange voice in her head. _Call that new doctor._

_Genevieve Chesterton, have you gone mad?_

_Yes, precisely_, said the other voice. _You are going mad. Call him now._

Strangely the panic subsided enough that she was able to steady herself to uncrumple the paper and dial the phone number.

_This is insane Genevieve Chesterton. He probably is not even in and you should be calling the hospital right now instead of this young quack._

"This is Dr. Jonathan Crane, how may I help you?"

Genevieve Chesterton was too stunned at first. A doctor answering his own phone, how odd is that? Most doctors have a receptionist.

"This is – this Mrs. Genevieve Chesterton. I – Dr. Westmeyer recommended me –"

"Oh, yes, he told me you would call. Panic attacks. My sole study is in Fear and overcoming Fear. If you wish to overcome your Fear, I can help you – if that is what you wish."

Genevieve Chesterton was dumbstruck. Her heart was still pounding rapidly, but there was something about this doctor, something that was calming, but also deeply unsettling, as though he was reading into her soul, even just by the sound of her voice.

"You're having one right now aren't you," he whispered – it was a statement, not a question.

"Yes."

"Have you taken any medication for it?"

"No."

"Give me your address then – I'll be right there."

Whatever she was expecting from his voice was even more of a shock when she first saw him. He was younger than she had anticipated for a doctor. He was a striking young man with piercing blue eyes, dark, wavy brown hair, sensual lips and stylish glasses with rectangle frames. He wore a finely tailored suit and carried a leather briefcase. He was the vision, she imagined, of what every young woman would dream of when she hoped she would marry a doctor: Intelligent, handsome, young, supposedly wealthy and yet there was something unsettling in those eyes. They seemed cold, almost impersonal and piercing, seeing her more as a test subject than a human being – and it made her deeply uneasy.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane." He gave her a brief, firm business-like handshake despite the fact she was sprawled on the sofa gasping for breath. "You're still experiencing rapid heart palpitations, shortness of breath, panic episodes?"

"Y-yes," she gasped.

The young doctor snapped open his briefcase and placed a clear vial on the table followed by a syringe.

"You're – you're going to give me an injection," she gasped.

"Just a mild sedative. It will slow your heart rate and keep you from hyperventilating. You will feel better once you awake and then we can talk about what the real cause is of your panic." He looked at her with those piercing blue eyes. She turned away from his gaze. "The cause is within your mind – your Fear and how you are unable to control your Fear."

Before Genevieve Chesterton knew what was happening he had slipped the syringe needle into a vein and the sedative was coursing through her system. In seconds she had blacked out and knew no fear – knew nothing.

Dr. Crane had his back to his patient, putting way the syringe and vial, then saw one of the white pills scattered on the carpet. He bent down and picked one up. He deeply sighed.

"Medication this weak would do someone with an anxiety disorder such as hers no good. She's going to need much more than these baby pills."

Still, Dr. Crane was looking forward to the challenge. He hadn't seen a panic attack this acute in quite awhile and he was looking forward to getting inside her head and discovering what she truly did fear.


	3. First Crush

Jonathan delved into his books more and more as his isolation grew. Many of his friends abandoned him when they discovered he was being beaten every afternoon by Stan and his thugs and feared they might become the bullies' next targets. Jonathan poured over his studies voraciously and almost managed to fill the empty void that seemed to grow despite how much he tried to ignore it.

He brushed away the bits of food and paper wads that every now and then would be tossed at him as he sat hunched over his book in the lunch room. A wide empty space on the bench remained between him and the many other students who were busy smiling and

chatting, who either were oblivious of his presence or every now would point at him and snicker.

He wished he was a strong enough person to say it didn't hurt – that the taunts and loneliness could hurt him no more than it would hurt a solitary stone. Sometimes he wished he had the heart of stone; he would suffer much less. The bell rang and startled

Jonathan awake from his sad daydreaming. He was angry at himself for indulging in feeling sorry for himself – it would only make himself more miserable and he

knew that was what Stan wanted – to humiliate him and ultimately make him feel as badly about himself as he physically felt. He couldn't let that happen or the moronic ape would win.

Jonathan snapped his book closed and shoved his scarcely touched lunch back into his bag. His next class would be chemistry – a class he became more fascinated in the more he learned of the intricate molecular structures of the compounds and how those compounds can be formed and combined into chemicals. As Jonathan cut across the campus lawn, he saw many of the teenagers still idling, even though the class bell had

rung. Many of them were dating couples, flirting with one another, but mostly kissing and holding each other close.

_Stupid. All they can think with is their hormones_, Jonathan thought.

As he swept past, he bumped into someone.

"Hey, watch it!"

Jonathan was not in a good mood and after being regularly beaten after school. He rarely apologized for anything, but he did pause and look at who he bumped into briefly.

It was a girl with long, wavy brunette hair and chocolate brown eyes. She was wearing a fitted white blouse that showed a hint of her cleavage, which was tantalizing, but wasn't slutty, and a fitted blue skirt that hugged the soft swell of her hips. At that moment her full lips were pursed in anger. Jonathan suddenly felt very flustered.

"You bumped into me. Watch where you're going you clutz!"

"I – I'm a sorry. Didn't mean to."

Much of her anger drained out of her as she saw Jonathan's apology was sincere.

"I guess it's alright. Accidents happen. Better get to your class, you'll be late."

Before Jonathan could stammer out anything more to say, the girl had run at top speed to the other side of the campus. A few seconds later the late bell rang.

_Damn it!_

This would be the first time he'd been late since grammar school.

* * *

Jonathan found his mind wandering every now and then back to that girl during class and throughout the day. At first he enjoyed the thought, because she was beautiful, but the more he thought about it, the more aggravated he became. It distracted him from more 

important matters like his studies. He also kept telling himself, deep down, a girl that beautiful must already have a boyfriend and certainly would not be interested in anyone like him. Best to forget about her and the sooner the better.

Jonathan figured that wouldn't be too difficult a task, given the mid-term exams and the

mounting pile of homework that was coming due in his advanced classes. Now more than ever he needed to concentrate and focus on the task at hand. He had no room for idle daydreaming about girls; his future rested solely on his mind and what possible scholarship he might gain to afford college.

He packed up his books later than usual from the library and headed home about an hour later than he normally would. He worried for the first time in a long time that Stan and his thugs already would be waiting for him. And today he was strangely feeling too good to have his day ruined by what that bully had planned. Let that ape and his goons wait and he'd never show up – that would teach him and his dim-witted toadies. A dark delight filled Jonathan as he shouldered his backpack and walked an extra three miles he normally didn't have to travel when he took the shortcut through Shackborough Street. It was near dusk when he arrived home, but his mother still wasn't there yet.

He had plenty of time to get much of his homework done before dinner and this would be an opportune time to do some research on his history project on military strategists. But as he opened his textbooks and notebook, his pen and paper ready, the same idle thoughts returned and it was maddening how he was having so much difficulty concentrating.

_Jonathan Crane, if you can do your homework after a solid beating, you can certainly push all thoughts of a silly girl out of your head and do your work!_

He squinted and bent closer to his books, as though the closer proximity would help his concentration.

Those dark brown eyes, those full lips . . . that blouse.

Jonathan grasped his hair. He felt like he was ready to scream. He didn't understand how he could feel so wonderful and so miserable all at once. He yanked out the packet of ice from the freezer and crushed it hard against his forehead. The cold felt good and helped him try to forget about her.

_Love your studies. A girl like that won't love you. Girls like that never do._

Droplets dripped upon the sheet of paper he had begun writing his homework on and the ink began to run. Jonathan didn't care.


	4. Making An Appointment

Genevieve Chesterton awoke dazed and confused. She was lying comfortably on her plush red velvet sofa, not sprawled awkwardly on it as she had been when she had lapsed into unconsciousness, but with her limbs perfectly arranged and her arms resting on her stomach. Every pill that had spilled onto the carpet had been picked up and placed back into the bottle. The bottle was next to her on the polished mahogany table with note in perfect penmanship:

_I would discard this medication. It is of no use to your condition._

_ Dr. Jonathan Crane_

She frowned at the cryptic note and found it very bizarre that was the only written note he had left. She turned it over and found that on the back was his business card. Now instead of being confused she was angry. She was running his visit back through her mind and didn't like the fact he drugged her without first asking permission, and didn't he promise he would be there when she awoke? Not only did Mrs. Chesterton now think he was a quack, but he also was a liar too. She would call him up and give him her two cents, which was something she had grown quite accustomed to.

Quickly she picked up her antique gold-leafed phone with the mother-of-pearl handle and dialed his number. His phone ran once, twice, three times . . . then was picked up. Mrs. Chesterton opened her mouth, about ready to spew a litany of complaints and insults.

"This is Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm not in right now, but if you would like to make an appointment –"

Mrs. Chesterton was tempted to slam down the phone, but opted to wait out the recording and leave one of the most scathing messages the young doctor had ever heard, but when the recording finally beeped and was recording, she said:

"This is Mrs. Genevieve Chesterston. You visited earlier. You promised you would talk with me, but when I awoke you were gone. I'd like to make an appointment. Call me at your convenience."

She hung up the phone, wondering what suddenly came over her. Why was she suddenly so cordial toward a doctor whom she was paying? After all, she was the customer; he should be pleasing her, shouldn't he? But of course he should! And he should have stayed until she awoke. Irresponsible boy!

Out of habit she grabbed the bottle of pills off the table and was prepared to pop one pill into her mouth. Dr. Crane's note fluttered to her foot.

_I would discard this medication. It is of no use to your condition._

"Hmph, what does he know?"

She was about to take one of the small white pills when the phone rang so loudly she nearly dropped the bottle to the floor again.

_Get a handle on yourself, Genevieve Chesterton! You're acting like a jittery schoolgirl._

She grabbed the phone.

"Hello, who is this?"

"Mrs. Chesterton. This is Dr. Jonathan Crane. I trust you are feeling better?"

"Why yes, a little better. Why didn't you stay until I was awake? You promised!"

Even to Mrs. Chesterton that last statement sounded very petulant as soon as she had said it.

"Please accept my apologies. I was needed at the Gotham Court House shortly after I visited you. My testimony was needed for Victor Shikenz."

"The Five-alley Slasher," Mrs. Chesterton gasped. "He's murdered how many? Ten, twenty people?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Mrs. Chesterton. As I said, I delivered key testimony."

"Certainly what you told them will have him locked up behind bars for a very long time, I do hope?"

She could hear him sigh and there was a long pause.

"All I can say is the man is criminally insane and will be given the care to treat someone suffering from such acute homicidal tendencies – but this not about Mr. Shikenz. You want to make an appointment, is that correct? Will tomorrow at 3 o' clock be convenient for you?"

"Uh, yes, that should be all right."

"Good, I shall look forward to our meeting until then Mrs. Chesterton."


	5. Basic Psychology

Jonathan didn't sleep well last night. At first images of that silly girl he had tried so hard to push from his thoughts kept popping back into his subconscious mind. She was smiling and laughing, the sun glowing golden in her dark brown curls. The image kept reoccurring over and over in constant loop until it was near maddening – then the dream changed. At first it was a welcome relief to Jonathan, but it was dark in this dream and he felt fear, a raw primal fear that he hadn't felt; it was more terrifying than the first time he had been chased down and beaten by bullies as a child. There was screaming and pain, pain from someone he loved. He was crying.

"Stop! _Stop!_"

He opened his eyes, dazed from the trauma of the nightmare and tangled in his bed sheets. Pale sunlight was streaming from his window and the hiss and rush of the Wayne Train soon brought him back to reality.

_Just a nightmare, Jonathan. It was nothing. Best get ready for school_.

He put on his glasses and picked up one of his school books – _Basic Psychology_. As he was beginning to learn, there was nothing basic about the human mind. He wondered if anywhere within this book was the answer to the nightmare he had experienced. No, if he was to find any answers, it would be in books that covered the human mind in much greater depth. It would be interesting if he could discover what he was afraid of and if he could conquer that fear. How wonderful to no longer fear anything anymore. How powerful someone would be who didn't fear anything!

Jonathan made a point to visit the library before class started and to check out what books seemed to pertain most to dreams and psychology. By the time fifth hour had rolled around, the affects of the nightmare had begun to fade and Jonathan was busy taking notes for class. He sat in one of the desks in the front row, not of haughtiness (although he knew he was the brightest in the class), but because recently his eyes had begun to change and he couldn't see the blackboard too well. He couldn't afford to buy a new pair of glasses yet.

Mr. Eric Chambers, who always seemed to wear the same brown suit and black tie day after day to Jonathan's psychology class, wrote in large enough letters for Jonathan to see on the blackboard:

**CARL GUSTAV JUNG**

"And who can tell me a bit more about Carl Jung? Who did he first study under?"

There was the typical silence Jonathan had long since grown accustomed to. Few people ever read their psychology homework or if they did they skim-read it before coming to class and could barely remember any of the details.

Jonathan out of habit raised his hand.

"Emily, yes," Mr. Chambers said.

_What? Someone else volunteered?_

Out of curiosity, Jonathan turned around and looked toward the back of the room. A girl with wavy brunette hair and beautiful brown eyes put her hand down. She was wearing a fitted pink T-shirt today.

"He first studied under Sigmund Freud," she said.

"Correct, Emily. Very good," said Mr. Chambers. "And can anyone tell me why he left Freud's tutelage . . . Jonathan Crane, would you kindly face the front of the classroom, please."

"Uh – yes, sorry," he mumbled, his face burning.

"And while you're facing the front, Jonathan, could you tell me why Jung left Freud?"

"Well, that's a complicated question, but – uh." Jonathan was tempted to look back at Emily to see what the expression on her face was at that moment, but he fought it. "It all came down to a disagreement in what unconsciously motivates people."

Mr. Chambers faced him, oblivious to the wide smudge of chalk dust on his brown coat.

"Very good. Would anyone else care to elaborate? Yes, Emily."

_Emily again!_

Jonathan did not turn around this time.

"Whereas Freud based studies on – on sexuality, Jung believed there was something more to the subconscious, that it is revealed through mythological images and motifs."

"Excellent, Emily! That is correct! Jung believed the unconscious is revealed in archetypes, which manifest themselves in many forms, but which have a common presence in mythology and human consciousness throughout the world, such as . . ."

_

* * *

_

_Jonathan Crane you are such an idiot, you know that._

He was walking a safe distance away trying to get up the nerve to talk to her as she was walking to her class. Now would be a perfect chance before her friends arrived from Social Studies. He only had a minute or two to get a word in if he was going to say anything at all.

_You spineless coward, say something!_

"Um, hi."

She kept walking.

_She's ignoring me. (No, you fool, she didn't hear you. That was barely a whisper.)_

"Um, hi, Emily."

He quickened his pace so she could at least see him. She casually glanced at him.

"Hi. Why were you staring at me in class? You have a penchant for being rude, y'know."

"Sorry, I just didn't realize you were in my class."

She stopped and stared at him in shock.

"How long have we been taking that class together? Seven months? And only after you knock my books on the ground you notice me?"

_Jonathan Crane, it is official – you **are** an idiot._

"I just meant – what you said in class, you were really good," he said.

That sounded terribly lame, even to Jonathan's ears. As much as she struggled not to smile, a slight grin tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Thank you. Jung is an interesting guy, much more so than Freud – Freud and his – well you know what he was fixated on."

Jonathan felt himself blushing fiercely and that truly made Emily smile when she saw that.

"Emily, there you are," cried a girl.

Two girls came running across the campus lawn, one with golden curly hair, a fashionable shirt and blouse showing off her firm midriff; the other with chestnut brown hair and gray eyes in stylish jeans and a white T-shirt that exposed her shoulder. Jonathan instantly knew who both of them were, the blonde girl was Tiffany Parker and the brunette Jessica Anderson – both came from wealthy families, connected well enough with the Wayne family – and both were extremely popular.

Jessica almost pounced on Emily, laughing. That suddenly stopped when she saw Jonathan.

"What are you doing talking to the Scarecrow," Jessica said, almost snidely.

"Yeah, Emily, let's get away from him. You know only Crows hang around him," giggled Tiffany.

Crows had become a synonymous term for an ugly girl shortly after Jonathan had been named Scarecrow. It began when any girl seen around him or bothering to talk to him henceforth was called a Crow and teased mercilessly. After that the term mushroomed until it became a universal insult for any girl.

"Let's get going before anyone sees us around him." Jessica tugged at Emily's arm.

"Hey, do you mind," cried Emily. "We were talking!"

"Okay! If you want to be called a Crow fine with me, see you in class then," said Jessica, throwing up her hands in disgust.

"We really should get going, Em," said Tiffany, looking around at some of the kids staring at them.

Emily paused for a moment, gazing thoughtfully into Jonathan's eyes and for a moment the shame, bitterness and anger he felt every time he heard the name Scarecrow didn't seem so painful.

"I don't know what they mean by Scarecrow," Emily finally said. "I don't see the resemblance at all . . . Well, better not be late again uh –"

"Jon."

"C'mon Emily," cried Tiffany.

"Bye, Jon," Emily said as Tiffany pulled her away.

Jonathan briefly watched as Emily left with Tiffany before darting off quickly to his next class. He couldn't recall feeling so wonderful in his entire life.


	6. What You Fear

Mrs. Chesterton couldn't shake the growing feeling of unease that increased as she approached the doors of Dr. Jonathan Crane's office. The office building was quite plain compared to the luxurious skyscrapers she had grown accustomed to with the plate glass windows and gleaming brushed steel. Quite simply it was just a drab brick building with small windows

But inside the office looked pretty much the same as many other doctors' offices with neutral blue-gray carpeting, stained wood decoration and sterile white walls. The elevator's stainless steel doors slid open and she gazed at his business card.

_Office 204_

She pressed the No. 2 button. The elevator doors closed. One thing Mrs. Chesternon knew, she wasn't claustrophobic.

His office was on the far end of the hall and Mrs. Chesterton made a point of gazing at some of the other offices. She didn't get to see much. Many of the other offices were closed or seemed to be private rooms. How very odd indeed. When she opened the door, she expected the office wouldn't be crowded at all – she had not been all that impressed with the young doctor. But she had been mistaken.

In one corner was a pale young woman with sunken eyes who seemed like she hadn't slept in days. Unlike Mrs. Chesterton, she seemed quite poor with her rough cotton dress and tattered tennis shoes.

_I sure hope this Crane isn't into charity cases, because I won't wait around while he serves that poor girl first._

To her right was a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, but he kept writing something on a pad of paper. He never raised his eyes up from the pad. Out of curiosity she glanced at the pad. It seemed like he was writing the same thing over and over again.

_Well he's a mental case. I wonder if Dr. Westmeyer was wrong. I'm not as far gone as him._

The last patient made her the most uneasy of all. It was a young man with a hollow face and piercing black eyes. Like the young woman, he didn't seem to have that much money. He was wearing a ripped black T-shirt emblazoned with a screaming skull and ragged jeans. But he kept staring at her with those haunted eyes. This time Mrs. Chesterton couldn't help herself.

"You know it quite rude to stare," she said. "Know your manners, young man."

"Ahem."

It was the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment ma'am?"

"Yes, dear. I'm Mrs. Genevieve Chesterton. I have a three o'clock appointment."

A young woman in her mid-twenties with light brown hair and a white coat pulled up her charts and checked the appointment schedule from behind the polished gray counter.

"So you do. Please fill out these forms and Dr. Crane will be with you shortly."

The receptionist handed her five pages worth of forms to Mrs. Chesterton and she flipped through them briefly.

"If you don't mind dear," said Mrs. Chesterton, glancing at the pale girl in the corner. "Do you know how long the wait is?"

"Oh, not long," said the receptionist. "Maybe 15 or 20 minutes. He is quite punctual."

"And, if I may ask," Mrs. Chesterton whispered, leaning over the counter. "Is that girl before me?"

"Oh, they all are, ma'am. They have appointments ahead of you. You agreed to the three o' clock."

"If I may be so bold, my dear. I will not wait for these – these people. I insist on being seen at once."

Mrs. Chesterton slid a $100 bill underneath the clipboard of all the unfilled out forms she was still clutching.

"Uh, ma'am, I cannot accept that. Please take your seat and fill out those forms. Dr. Crane will be with you shortly."

"Girl, I will not wait. This is an emergency! I will not wait yet again to see –"

"Is there a problem?"

The inner office door opened and Dr. Jonathan Crane was standing there in his perfectly tailored suit taking in the scene with those cool, blue eyes.

"Mrs. Chesterton, I'm so glad you could come to the three o' clock appointment," said Dr. Crane. "I have been looking forward to it."

Suddenly a wave of apprehension filled Mrs. Chesterton as she gazed at those cool, nearly emotionless blue eyes, as though intricate calculations on her character and soul were being filed and categorized in his mind. A slight smile formed on his lips.

"Please take a seat. I shan't keep you waiting long, I assure you," he said.

"But – but these other patients –"

"You're not used to waiting, are you? That's okay, Mrs. Chesterton. It will be worth the wait," he said. "I have studied your case quite thoroughly."

His gaze seemed to burrow into her soul and a chill filled her while her heart raced. It was only when his eyes turned away that she felt some relief.

"Angie, it's okay. It's your turn," said Dr. Crane, in as soothing a tone as Mrs. Chesterton had ever heard from him. It scared her even more. "Don't be frightened, Angie . . . There is nothing to fear."

The pale girl in the corner got up, her eyes shyly meeting his before glancing back down to the floor. Gently he took her hand and Mrs. Chesterton noted how rough her hand looked compared to his. Dr. Crane's smile broadened as he led her through the office door.

* * *

"That girl is a common worker, isn't she," asked Mrs. Chesterton.

"Angie is one of the finest seamstresses in Gotham City. More likely than not she sewed one of your designer dresses – there is nothing common about her," said Dr. Crane.

"But she is poor and yet you saw her before me," said Mrs. Chesterton indignantly. "Surely she cannot afford to see you, not at what I'm paying you for this session."

Dr. Crane sat back in his leather chair, again his piercing blue eyes boring into her from his stylish designer glasses.

"Not just the wealthy need help with the mind, Mrs. Chesterton. Those who cannot afford to go to other psychologists come to me – and it's a privilege. Does that bother you?"

He leaned across his walnut desk and Mrs. Chesterton suddenly felt more than anything that she wanted to jump out of her plush black leather chair and run out of the office. Her eyes suddenly darted to the window.

"Why – Why are there bars on the window?"

"Oh. That's for my more violent patients. You needn't worry about that Mrs. Chesterton."

"But I – uh –"

"But you are afraid of something," Dr. Crane said in nearly a whisper. "That is why you are here – and that is why I can help. But I must warn you, my methods are unconventional . . . Are you ready?"

Normally Mrs. Chesterton would have jumped out her seat and stalked out of the room, but there was something about those mesmerizing, cool eyes and that slight smile upon those sensuous lips that kept her riveted.

_Like a mouse enthralled by a cobra._

"Are you ready?"

Mrs. Chesterton slightly nodded.

"Good. We are all afraid of something, Mrs. Chesterton. Fear isn't a bad thing. It's a survival instinct really. It kept our ancestors alive for millennia, but when it paralyzes, when it enslaves us, that is the beginning of neurosis. Now the question we all must face is what do we fear the most?"

Mrs. Chesterton shook her head, feeling unable to move from her seat.

"I – I don't know."

"That is what I will help you find . . . But first I'm going to need a little help. This is Wilbur."

Mrs. Chesterton started screaming as soon as she saw it. She was hiding behind her chair in her designer clothing and fancy fur shawl. Dr. Crane was completely unphased.

"Wilbur isn't that scary really. I named him after the pig in "Charlotte's Web." I'm terribly uncreative with names. He's a South African tarantula. I hear most people are deathly afraid of spiders. I know I was as a child."

He took the hairy black tarantula out of its jar and held it very calmly on his hand.

"Would you like to hold him?"

"NO!"

"Very well." He placed Wilbur back in its jar and gave her a sly smile. "You know if you never face your fear you'll never overcome it."

Mrs. Chesterton was still too busy trembling and too relieved to not be holding Wilbur to reply.

"But that is not what you truly fear, is it Mrs. Chesterton," Dr. Crane said in his cool professional tone. "It is something much deeper . . . Please sit. I promise I will not bring Wilbur out again – unless you make me."

Timidly she slid back into her fine leather chair, feeling terribly vulnerable and naked under his gaze.

"When did your husband die," he asked, sliding a pad in front of him and opening a gold plated pen.

"I – I guess not too long ago," she said. "A year – year and a half maybe?"

"And you've enjoyed your time? Friends, money, entertainment. Had any nightmares?"

"Uh, maybe." Mrs. Chesterton squirmed. "Honestly, I don't remember doctor."

"And these panic attacks, when did these start? Did you have them while your husband was alive?"

"Um, no. Never."

"So it began after he died. Death can be a traumatic experience. Tell me the situation you experience these panic attacks."

"I – I can't describe them. They just seem to happen."

"No pattern at all?"

"I have them at home, in a shopping mall, watching a movie. Anywhere."

"Are you with your friends, family then?"

"Uh – no."

Dr. Crane suddenly wrote something very big Mrs. Chesterton couldn't see on the pad of paper and circled it several times.

"I think I can help, but you'll have to trust me on this." He gazed at her with those unnerving eyes that seemed to pierce the very depths of her soul. "Do you trust me?"

"I – I don't know."

Dr. Crane slowly smiled.


	7. The Alley

**Warning: This chapter includes some disturbing scenes and mention of drugs.**

The warm spring breeze wafted the delightful fragrance of blossoming cherry trees from the Gotham City Central Park. It was a welcome change from the usual car exhaust and the stifling dank smog that sometimes shrouded the city heavily. But this afternoon the dank fog had lifted and a clear afternoon was shining on the city, still gleaming from the noon rain. Jonathan's heart felt light and he couldn't recall feeling so alive. He was tempted to smile, but that was never a good idea, not on this side of town. He kept his eyes to the wet pavement, which was dotted occasionally with filthy gum.

_Jonathan, you are acting like an idiot in love. Now concentrate. Finals are coming up in a few weeks. Got to get excellent grades to qualify for a scholarship. Now Jung's first study was on schizophrenia, The Psychology of Dementia Praecox._

_(She smiled at me. She really smiled at me. She didn't call me Scarecrow, like all the others. She didn't think –")_

_Jonathan! Concentrate! Carl Jung classified personalities into introvert and extravert, according to that person's view on the world._

_(She didn't even care what her friends thought. She didn't even care if they called her a Crow. She just wanted to talk to me. She is so beautiful –")_

_You love her, but she doesn't love you. She probably just sees you as a friend – like all the others. Your studies Jonathan – remember that! Carl Jung defined neurosis as "the suffering of the soul, which has not discovered its meaning."_

". . . the suffering of the soul, which has not discovered its meaning."

"Hey, Scarecrow!"

Jonathan snapped his gaze up from the pavement. He had frequently been taking the long way home on a regularly basis, bi-passing Shackborough Street altogether for several days. How could he have been such an idiot to think Stan wouldn't start scouting alternate routes to see where he had gone?

Even though it had been less than a week since Jonathan had been beaten by Stan in Shackborough, he looked far more intimidating. Stan had been practicing on the football team more. His black hair was buzzed close to a near-Marine crew cut and his broad shoulders and muscled arms bulged out of his red T-shirt. Jonathan also could see in Stan's dark gray eyes a mixture of anger and delight at being able to beat him senseless again.

"Too long Scarecrow. What's the matter? Afraid your stuffin' will be beaten out of you?"

Stan's toadies stood back. Jonathan knew he was in for business – Stan wanted to do the beating all himself this time. Last time that happened, Jonathan came home with a bloody nose and both eyes nearly swollen shut. As Stan lunged for him, his huge muscular hand ready to grab and twist Jonathan's arm like a vise, Jonathan jumped out of his grasp.

That made Stan really angry.

"So the Scarecrow wants to play? I'll play with you Scarecrow."

In an expert tackle Stan slammed Jonathan into the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Jonathan crumpled to the ground, aching in his stomach and ribs. While Jonathan was still on his knees, gasping for breath, Stan hovered close, maliciously smiling. Grabbing a fistful of Jonathan's hair, he yanked his head back. Panting, Jonathan's heart thundering loudly, he saw something else in Stan's eyes.

"The Scarecrow is afraid of me! Good! You should be if you knew what I was going to do to you for making me wait those last few days."

_He is going to kill me_.

His arms were still free, so Jonathan aimed a blow, not for Stan's face, but a sharp blow to the stomach. He knew it didn't harm him, but it was enough to stun and shock, enough to buy him time. Jonathan twisted free of Stan's grip in those crucial moments as he was doubled over and swearing and ran – ran blindly, anywhere to escape. The street he was on was West Avenue; it was far too open and wide to hide or out distance Stan or any of his toadies, who were far more athletic than he was. Panic flooded Jonathan as he gazed about the street wildly. He could hear the footsteps rushing up behind him. A narrow alley stood temptingly next to him – and he took it.

If there was one thing he learned ever since he was a young child was to never **ever** take an alley. Only travel down streets in full daylight. Going down an alley will only get you killed. As Jonathan ran deeper into the alley, the sunlight seemed to be swallowed up and the wetness that made the street clean and fresh made the alley seem dank, slimy and unwholesome. Graffiti and filth covered the walls, and rats raced out of Jonathan's way as he panted, desperately running, trying not to look back.

"Scarecrow," Stan's voice echoed. "Scarecrow, I'm going to get you for this!"

His heart raced, the walls of the alley seemed to close in on him. Panic swelled in his veins and his lungs felt like they were ready to burst. Now he realized he was not alone. Scantily clad women, some not that much older than he was, gazed at him, asking if he was "interested." Some of the homeless crouched in the narrow shelter of an overhang, gazed with great interest at his shoes. From an adjoining alley a man in a black trench coat slipped a gun into his pocket – one of Falcone's men who had just finished a "job."

_You're going to die here. Either Stan will kill you or –_

A second burst of energy and fear flooded him, and Jonathan gazed backward. He saw a dark figure quickly moving towards him. The silhouette looked like Stan's. Jonathan turned the corner and he thought he could see a light ahead of him – perhaps a way out of the alley and new places to hide. Suddenly the light was blocked to his sight as a large, rough hand reached out and grabbed him, dragging him into the darkness.

* * *

Jonathan struggled, but it was more a weak, pathetic struggle, like a gnat caught by spider. He was pressed against the cold, filthy brick wall, that large hand, rough hand crushing over his mouth. Jonathan's blue eyes gazed wide, straining to see who his murderer would be, desperately trying not to whimper and fighting back the tears. All he could see was a huge dark figure before him in the shadows.

"Shh-shh-shh-shh. Just be quiet. It will be okay. Yer pal will be passing by soon. He's real pissed at ye."

Jonathan closed his eyes as he heard Stan's footsteps approach and swiftly pass by, oblivious to the dark alley he was now caught in.

"Hey, wake up ye. Not nap time, lil' boy. But I got some goodies, that's right."

Jonathan's eyes shot open and saw that he had moved slightly, though his hand still pressed hard against his mouth. Some dim, filthy sunlight had managed to creep into the alley way and he could see a large, filthy man with a tattered, graying beard and bleary, slightly crazed eyes fumbling in his rags for something.

"Ah, I have some good stuff. The Falcon gave me some. Eh, yeah. Says, give the boys and girls some. But I take some too, eh?"

The filthy man looked like he was laughing, but made no sound. All Jonathan could do was stare.

"Now, if yer a good boy, I'll take my hand off. But no running, no screaming. Good boys don't do that? Okay?"

Jonathan tried to nod "Okay."

"Good lil' boy. But I'll hold on to ye just in case. Boys can get lost in scary places like this, eh?"

He took away the hand from his mouth but slid it down to Jonathan's arm and squeezed it so tight it nearly cut off his circulation.

"That's a good boy. No run. Now the goodies, eh?" His bleary eyes lit up as he showed Jonathan a crinkled clear plastic bag filled with pills. "This is yummy eh? Mixed bag o' candy. Uppers – makes ye feel like yer flying."

Jonathan stared at the bag of drugs, stunned at realizing where he was and what was happening to him.

"Boy doesn't want this candy? Uncle Jo has lots more. Oh, lots more goodies for my boys and girls."

He shoved the bag of drugs back into his rags and began fumbling for something else. Jonathan was struggling to find his voice.

"Uh, I –"

"Call me Uncle Jo."

"Uh, Uncle Jo. I don't want any drugs."

"Goodies, candies. They be good. Uppers, downers."

"I don't want –"

"Listen!"

Before Jonathan could realize, he was being crushed into the wall again, "Uncle Jo" was squeezing his face and glaring into his eyes. He had the eyes of madman.

"Listen, lil' boy. The Falcon said, 'Give these goodies to the boys and girls,' and I give it to the boys and girls. Now I saved yer life so I give ye a goody, but ye _take_ a goody. _See_."

Jonathan could smell alcohol on his breath and his stink. A glint of something silver suddenly flashed in the corner of his eye. He glanced at it. It was a knife.

"Now will the lil' boy take a goody or take the shiny?"

"Uh – the goody, please Uncle Jo."

"Good boy. Good goody for my good boy."

He put away the knife, but still gripped Jonathan hard while he fumbled for a "goody." As Jonathan's heart raced, a strange calm fell over him and from a small corner of his mind, the tiniest voice spoke. Jonathan closed his eyes and let that tiny voice, that small part of him, temporarily take over. When he opened them again, his blue eyes were suddenly cool and calm.

"Uncle Jo, do you have something you can inhale – a powder?"

"Some snort? Like coke?"

Jonathan slightly smiled, a dark delight in his eyes.

"No – something more powerful."

"Like, ah, I know just the thing. A new tasty treat for my lil' boy."

He pulled out a bag from his ragged pocket. Unlike the pill bag, it was entirely in powder with some tiny crystal particles in it.

"New. They call it CliMax. Intense, powerful. Make ye feel like yer soaring."

Jonathan turned his cold eyes to the filthy man.

"I want something that will induce nightmares," said Jonathan. "Will it give you nightmares?"

"Uncle Jo" was taken aback by the question and slowly shook his head.

"I guess – in a high enough dosage. But only the best treats for my boy – and the first taste is free."

He crushed the bag filled with white powder into Jonathan's hand and released his vise grip on his arm.

"The Falcon says give treats to the boys and girls and so I do. Uncle Jo will see you again real soon lil' boy."

The filthy man smiled, showing most of his teeth had rotted away, and shuffled off into the darkness of the alley. Jonathan gazed at the bag of drugs in his hand. CliMax – could induce nightmares at a high enough dosage. Why had he asked that? Already he could feel his legs trembling. He was on the verge of a breakdown.

_Not here. You're not safe. Please help._

That "help" was the same help he had received just moments before when that strange calm came over him and that feeling of power and control. In that cold, dank alley the frail teenage boy straightened, brushed off the filth from his clothing and walked out of the alley. He feared no one – not even if Stan should meet up with him again. This small part of him – it _hungered_ for Fear, fed off of it and desired more. All his emotions poured into it, drained into its ravening depths and that cool emotionless, that fearless power – it was intoxicating.

Jonathan stepped into the apartment and carefully hid the CliMax bag in his closet, just wondering what he would do with it.

_Great things_, came the small voice.

Jonathan sat in front of the mirror, gazing at his cold, emotionless eyes, a face that seemed to register no fear, pain or love. Slowly, he "let go" of the "help" deep inside his mind. At first it was reluctant to relinquish control, but then it crept back into the corner of the mind it came from and a wave of emotion flooded back. Jonathan almost regretted what he had done, for he felt fear and pain once again. Before he knew what was happening, he was trembling uncontrollably and tears were streaming down his face.

Information and quotes from Carl Jung found on Web site www.kirjasto.sci.fi/cjung.htm


	8. The Experiment

"You know you are boring me," Mrs. Chesterton said.

"If there is one thing I can always count on," said Dr. Crane with an amused grin. "Is your complete honesty with me. I appreciate that."

Mrs. Chesterton sat back in her chair with a bored sigh. This was not what she had expected by Dr. Crane's "unconventional" methods she had wondered about and perhaps had feared when she first agreed on his "help."

She had to admit she was a bit intimidated when the session first started. Unlike being in his comfortable office like on the first visit, she was escorted by Dr. Crane to a relatively stark room – one of the rooms that was dark and locked up further down the hallway. As soon as he flicked on the lights she was terribly disappointed. By the air of drama Crane was promoting, she almost expected it to display shelves of pickled experiments and a full torture chamber. His mysterious aloofness seemed to insinuate some sort of dark secret lurking in one of these locked up rooms. But it was just a small room with bare white walls, no decoration whatsoever, with white tiled floors and a white table.

"Who did your interior decorating? Someone who was color blind," Mrs. Chesterton quipped.

Dr. Crane smiled as he gazed around the room.

"Yes, I guess it could use a bit of color." Then he turned his eyes to her, very serious. "But that would add addition stimuli, wouldn't it? No, best to keep it neutral white. No distractions then."

But as Mrs. Chesterton was sitting in her chair – a thoroughly uncomfortable folding chair compared to that lovely leather chair Dr. Crane had back in his office – she was almost wishing for "additional stimuli." She was just so incredibly bored.

On the blank white wall Dr. Crane was projected different images, one at a time, on slides while making notes on how each image made her feel.

This time the image was a big red ball.

"And how does that make you feel," asked Dr. Crane.

"Like I want to bounce that damn red ball off your head! Can I go now? We've been at this for over an hour."

"Just a bit more, Mrs. Chesterton. Patience is a virtue, as they say."

Although Mrs. Chesterton couldn't see it, Dr. Crane was writing on his notepad:

_Patient C. is showing increasing hostility and impatience to said visual stimuli. Hypothesis proving positive on Patient C.'s response. Patient C. almost ready for Stage 2 in treatment._

Dr. Crane decided just for good measure to flash a few more pictures from the projection slide just to make sure his patient was ready for "Stage 2."

He showed her a picture of a large chocolate bar.

"And how does that make you feel," he asked in a low, soft tone.

"Hungry! Which reminds me I'm missing lunch. I want to go . . . _now!_"

"Very soon, Mrs. Chesterton. You're cooperation will speed your recovery greatly, I assure you . . . And now this."

Up flashed a picture of very jagged and intimidating-looking barbed wire. Mrs. Chesterton frowned when she saw it. Up until now he had been showing her comforting images – toys, people smiling, food and beautiful sunsets. But now was the picture of the barbed wire. How very odd.

"I don't know. I wouldn't want to touch it. It looks sharp."

Dr. Crane jotted down a few notes:

_Patient C. expressed trivial statement toward negative stimuli (i.e. barbed wire). Will begin use of Solution B721._

Silently from his open briefcase, Dr. Crane slid out his canvas mask and fixed securely its breathing apparatus to his face while Mrs. Chesterton's back was to him. He began burning the powdered crystals of Solution B721 in a shallow stainless steel dish. He had perfected the solution from its impure form which, when burned, had a sickly saccharine smell. Now it was entirely odorless and perfect to test on his patients.

Mrs. Chesterton squinted and thought she must be tired and maybe a little dizzy from being hungry. It looked like the barbed wire had vibrated a little – that it had moved.

_Imagining things again, silly woman. The sooner I'm out of this place and away from that crazy doctor the better._

"What's the next picture? Are we almost done with this," Mrs. Chesterton cried out, trying to ignore the barbed wire which now began to look like it was shivering in the wind.

"Oh, yes, almost done," said Dr. Crane.

_Patient C. either is ignoring Solution B721 or is not affected yet at 1:58 minutes. Displaying Slide 0249._

Mrs. Chesterton gave a little yelp, but quickly stifled it.

It was a picture of a swarm of snakes, only instead of the picture being static, the serpents were writhing, flicking their tongues, gazing at her with their coppery slit eyes.

"Is there something wrong," asked Dr. Crane. "How does this make you feel?"

Mrs. Chesterton clutched her chest, struggling to breathe.

"A bit – a bit faint. I – I hate snakes."

_Patient C. displays slight form of herpephobia, though not acute. Time 3:15. Patient C. showing increased disorientation._

Almost all the crystals of Solution B721 had burned away into a pure liquid in the steel dish and a thin stream of white smoke rose to the ceiling. Mrs. Chesterton wavered a little in the chair, looking about to pass out.

_Not yet, you stupid old hag! _Came a primal, guttural voice deep within Crane soul, total devoid of his analytic curiosity. _We haven't gotten to the good one yet! I want to hear you scream! I want your Fear!_

Crane tried to fight back the Scarecrow, but he knew it would not be long. It was hungry and he knew he could conduct his experiment successfully as well as allowing the Scarecrow a treat this afternoon.

He flashed the last image – an image he thought might push her over the edge – the trigger of her Fear. Mrs. Chesterton's eyes dilated when she saw it and her breathing turned rapid. At first she couldn't scream, her throat was so restricted, then her voice broke free in a shriek so loud Dr. Crane would have been glad the walls were sound proof. But as she began to writhe on the floor screaming, Dr. Crane was no longer there – the Scarecrow was relishing every moment of her agony.

_Yes, scream, writhe! Let me savor your agony. You've never really known suffering, you and your petty sorrows. But you shall know Pain, you shall know Terror under me!_

Mrs. Chesterton now had curled up into a fetal position, her shrieking dying down to a pathetic wail, her eyes covered by her trembling hands. The Scarecrow was moving close to her, hungry, so hungry for her Fear, wanting to inspire more in her, wanting to relish every last shriek he could wrench from her throat.

_No, I will give you more._ Dr. Crane told the Scarecrow. _I will give you much more than this. Just wait. Wait._

The Scarecrow stopped, hovering over her unconscious form, then turned away. The Scarecrow could wait for now.

* * *

Dr. Crane normally felt exhilarated and empowered when the Scarecrow took over. Today he felt exhausted. In some small way Dr. Crane was relieved she had not seen him as the Scarecrow. He almost felt a twinge of guilt as he pulled off the rough canvas mask of the Scarecrow and smoothed out his hair. Carefully he placed the mask back in his briefcase and removed a small vial of clear liquid and crouched by Mrs. Chesterton's unconscious form.

"Breathe in. Breathe in. That's it. Deep breaths."

Mrs. Chesterton gasped and her eyes shot open.

"What happened? I – oh how terrible!"

"A nightmare I'm afraid." Dr. Crane gazed at her, a soothing smile upon his lips. "I'm afraid you fell asleep during our session, then started to scream."

"Oh, my, did I? Oh – I'm sorry. I know I was bored, but I didn't realize . . . Is our session at an end doctor?"

"It is, Mrs. Chesterton. You are free to go."

Dr. Crane invitingly gestured to the door and Mrs. Chesterton without hesitation picked herself up off the floor and shuffled to the door.

"Until our next appointment," said Dr. Crane.

Mrs. Chesterton stopped at the door, gazed briefly into his cool, blue eyes before turning away and swiftly leaving the room.

Dr. Crane gazed at his notepad filled with valuable notes on "Patient C."

_Too bad, she was an apt patient and a fascinating study_, thought Crane._She won't be back._

_(Oh, she will be,_ said the primal, dark voice within._ She **will** return.)_

_How can you be so sure_, asked Dr. Crane.

_(Because she still Fears – she Fears much. Delicious Fear . . . And she will Fear more.)_

_And what do you Fear, Mrs. Genevieve Chesterton?_

Dr. Crane turned to the image projection that started Mrs. Chesterton shrieking uncontrollably. It wasn't a picture of a monster or a murderer, but a woman – a woman standing all alone in complete desolation.


	9. Behavioral Study

Jonathan stared blankly at the chalk board as Mr. Chambers wrote in big letters:

**BEHAVIORAL STUDY**

Mr. Chambers was wearing what seemed to be the same brown coat he always wore and the class seemed to be acting the same – noisy and obnoxious. Yet everything seemed so terribly different after what he had just experienced, as though just sitting in class was surreal after the traumatizing and intense experience in the alley.

It was quite unlike Jonathan to be daydreaming in class, but he couldn't shake several scenes that kept appearing over and over in his mind: The darkness of the alley, the poignant belief that any moment he was going to die, being forced to accept the powerful and deadly drug CliMax, and then that strange "help" he had received deep within his mind.

Jonathan closed his eyes momentarily, trying to picture where that "help" might reside. He knew only vaguely knew where it was and it frightened him, because he knew where it dwelt – in that part of him that day by day felt more anger and disgust at being victimized. He wanted to feel strong, powerful – invincible.

_Jonathan, what an absurd idea._

_No, it isn't, _came that small, dark voice from deep within.

Inwardly he smiled to think that one day he might be as powerful Falcone – no, more powerful. But Jonathan mentally shook himself out of his brief intoxicating vision of grandeur. That could never happen, could it? Best to concentrate on what power he did have, the power of the mind, power he could control.

Eagerly Jonathan started taking down notes again, determined that nothing would stop him from first getting a scholarship to the university.

"Now with a behavioral study, class, as beneficial as it is to study from textbooks and from esteemed psychologists, it is just as valuable to gain field study and practical application," said Mr. Chambers. "Therefore instead of a final examination I want each of you to pair up and offer a presentation based on your findings on your behavioral study with your partner."

Jonathan's heart immediately began to sink. He would have far preferred to take a five-page exam or write a 20-page essay over pairing up with anyone. This time he dared turn around and watched as friends eagerly began pairing up with one another.

"No, no. Pairings should be random," said Mr. Chambers. "Rebecca, you'll be paired with Jennifer. Brian, you'll be paired with Adrienne. Jim will be paired with Jason –"

As Jonathan heard his teacher drone on, he just hoped he wouldn't be paired with an absolute dolt, as he usually was in a "shared" assignment. Last time that happened he ended up writing papers for both himself and Michael, who couldn't write a coherent essay any more than a chimpanzee could.

"And Jonathan will be paired with Emily," said Mr. Chambers. "Meet with your teammate and start working on what psychologist you wish to focus on and what your behavioral study will be about."

Jonathan heart leapt, but suddenly he felt a wave a panic.

_Did Mr. Chambers say **Emily**? Great, now she's really going to hate me._

Jonathan was about ready to pick up his books and move to the back of the class where she was sitting when he heard a sudden, harsh slam on a desk beside him.

"I swear this is a conspiracy," Emily sighed. "Did you put Mr. Chambers up to this? You bumped into me a few days ago and now we're suddenly behavioral study partners?"

She shot him a suspicious look.

"Um, I guess it's pretty strange," Jonathan mumbled, studying the open page he was on with feigned interest.

Emily's chocolate brown eyes were intense, even angry.

"Very odd, I'd say."

She began chewing on the tip of her blue pen. From the look of her pen she did that a lot – it was pockmarked with teeth marks.

Jonathan smirked a little – it was not lost on Emily.

"What's so funny? You rarely smile in class – you better not be laughing at me," she said.

"No, I was just thinking back to Freud," said Jonathan. "If he saw your pen he would say you were suffering from an oral fixa-ah –"

She was now gazing straight at him with those dark, inquiring eyes of hers. He suddenly broke into a sweat.

"Oral fixa-ah," she mimicked.

"An – an oral fixation."

"Is that so?" She raised an eyebrow, then handed over to him her heavily gnawed on pen. "Then what does my 'oral fixation' tell you, Dr. Jonathan Crane?"

Jonathan almost laughed to hear Emily calling him a doctor. What an absurd thought – although the idea was strangely appealing somehow – a psychologist perhaps. He took the chewed up pen and gazed at it in mock concentration.

"I see you are suffering from a number of neuroses."

"Oh, is that so, Dr. Crane?"

"Yes, as well as anxiety disorder, perhaps schizophrenia and possible insanity."

"Anything else," she asked, innocently.

"You also need a new pen," said Jonathan, handing it back to her.

Emily took one look at the chewed up pen, then at Jonathan grinning at her, then playfully threw it at him.

Mr. Chambers turned around just as the pen was bouncing off Jonathan's shirt.

"Emily, you are excused from class. To the principal's office. Jonathan, I'll find you new partner."

"No, Mr. Chambers," Jonathan blurted out. "Emily and I . . . we were – we were testing the psychological trauma an individual would suffer after being hit with a flying projectile."

Mr. Chambers looked at Jonathan in disbelief and shook his head.

"I do hope you both come up with a project better than that," Mr. Chambers muttered, turning again to the blackboard to write out the study guidelines.

"Sorry, guess I got carried away," she said, blushing. "I've never had to go to the principal's before in high school. Thanks for keeping me out of trouble."

Jonathan smiled slightly, admiring how adorable she looked when she blushed.

"That's all right," he said. "We are partners right?"

Emily nodded and smiled.

* * *

Suddenly the prospect of doing a behavioral study with someone as beautiful and intelligent as Emily made it seem even more worthwhile. Jonathan's mind worked furiously on a variety of interesting and challenging projects, but when he presented them to Emily, each one of them she either rejected as being too difficult or dangerous – arguing they either placed the subjects or themselves at possible risk.

"Let's keep it easy, Jonathan. We are in high school psychology, after all."

"But don't you want to go beyond this, Emily," Jonathan said, his eyes ablaze with ideas. "We could do something really original. We could do a groundbreaking study."

"Jonathan, this is only supposed to be a simple behavioral study."

Jonathan sighed, frustrated. The only behavioral study Jonathan and Emily eventually could agree upon was Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. They gained permission from Mr. Chambers to spend some class time observing three- and four-year-old children in the child development class.

"So you're going to study children and their behaviors. How interesting," said Tanya, a bubbly teenage girl with short-cropped chestnut hair.

Tanya currently was holding a three-year-old boy who was more interesting in picking his nose than in participating in their behavioral study.

"Yes," said Emily. "We'll be observing through that two-way mirror how these children's needs are met and how they're able to develop and grow after each need is met. Jonathan and I – uh, Jonathan?"

Jonathan was busy looking at three-year-old boy who seemed to be fascinated with spinning around in circles. Jonathan took out his notepad.

_Subject A displays obsessive tendencies toward circular motion until said Subject collapses on the floor. Subject disoriented after circular motion. Subject likewise engages in obsessive circular motion after regaining orientation._

"Jonathan, we haven't begun the study yet," said Emily.

"Oh, that's right." Jonathan put his pen away as the child was spinning around on the floor again.

Everywhere young children were screaming, throwing toys, crashing into blocks and beating each other up with dolls.

_This must be what it's like to work in a mental institution_, thought Jonathan.

"Daddy!"

Jonathan felt something tugging hard at his pant leg and looked down at a small little girl. She had smooth brunette hair and large, bright blue eyes.

"Aww," cried Emily in delight. "How adorable, Jonathan! You must look like her dad."

_I never knew my father_, Jonathan thought.

"Yes, she's very cute," he said, wanting to get away from the kids as quickly as possible. "Um, I think we should get to the study."

"Daddy!"

The little girl beamed at him and Jonathan turned away.

* * *

Emily was smiling, gazing at the children through the one-way mirror. Jonathan was positive she'd be waving at the toddlers if they could see them, but they couldn't. In the darkness of that small cramped room, furnished with just two chairs and a table, they had complete privacy to take notes. On Day Three after seeing a number of temper tantrums, a couple of block throwing fights, a few games of tag and enough screaming to make Jonathan feel like his nerves had been scratched raw with sandpaper, he thought it was time to mix up the study a bit.

"Let's hide their toys and document their reaction."

"Jonathan, that will only make them scream."

"What if one of their needs isn't met? Would they regress back on the hierarchy of needs? Wouldn't that be fascinating?"

"Jonathan, we're here to study and document how children grow and develop as their needs are met."

"But what if one of their needs isn't met? What happens then?"

"Jonathan, we're not taking away their toys."

"At least no milk and cookies one afternoon."

"Jonathan –," Emily said in her warning voice.

"But if we don't observe how will we know?"

Emily rolled her eyes and went back to taking notes.

On Day Four of observation Emily noticed Judy, a four-year-old in a plaid dress and curly golden hair was screaming and crying for "Mr. Snuggles." Tanya was frantically looking for it.

"Um, Jonathan."

"Yes, Emily."

"Who is Mr. Snuggles?"

Jonathan kept his eyes on his notepad, busily taking notes.

"I don't know. How am I supposed to know?"

"Wasn't Mr. Snuggles a toy?"

"I don't know – was it?"

"Yes, I think it was a toy rabbit."

"Hmm." Jonathan now was pretending to write notes.

"Jonathan."

"Yes, Emily."

"Give her back the rabbit."

"But Emily –"

"Give her the rabbit!"

Jonathan threw down the notepad and left his chair. He paused, gazing at Judy screaming, her face red and wet with tears. Apart of him was fascinated by what seemed to be an ordinary temper tantrum as she was jumping up and down, her tiny fists clenched.

_Good! Scream! Cry you little brat! I've had nothing! NOTHING!_

Jonathan shook his head, frowning.

He made sure Emily didn't see, but from the back storage closet, he picked up the floppy white-furred rabbit doll and gave it to Tanya when she went on her break so Emily wouldn't see him with it.

When Jonathan returned, he could see Emily was smiling. Judy was busy hugging Mr. Snuggles, clearly overjoyed; her tears dried on the doll's matted fur. Jonathan slunk down in his chair and picked up his notepad.

_None of my needs have been met_, Jonathan petulantly thought.

_(But they will_, came the dark voice._ Some day they will.)_

Jonathan gazed up from his notepad through the two-way mirror, his eyes not on the screaming and playing children, but on a vision unfolding within his mind.


	10. Scarecrow's Revenge

**Warning: This chapter contains some disturbing scenes.**

Jonathan took a turn down toward Shackborough Street, hiking up his bookbag on his shoulder. Never did Jonathan think he would enjoy returning to Shackborough as the clean, respectable world of Gotham City faded away. He would now take no detours or longer routes now that Stan knew he was trying to circumvent him. No use in avoiding the inevitable.

_Give me your Fear and I shall take care of him_, whispered the dark voice within.

It was the "help" Jonathan had received in the alley, the same voice that when Jonathan surrendered his fear to it the same cool calm filled him – and he then feared nothing. It was wonderful and empowering, but at the same time Jonathan was troubled, because he had never experienced this voice before, this deep-seated voice that seemed to express anger, power and a thirst for others' Fear. At first it frightened Jonathan, but the voice enjoyed feeding upon his Fear and that Fear eventually drained away from him. He slowly was beginning to enjoy its company and the power and control it seemed to offer him. Dare he call it a friend?

_How can it be a friend when that "friend" is within your own mind? That's crazy Jonathan. Totally crazy._

_(Pick up the drugs. You'll need them today._)

The voice was now giving him directions too. As much as Jonathan hated to admit it, it was rarely wrong. He was studying psychology and realized that perhaps this "voice" was not a healthy thing, but he categorized it to highly imaginative intuition.

_The hearing of voices could be early signs of schizophrenia_, Jonathan thought. _No, that can't be. Now the drugs._

Jonathan realized it was not a wise thing to continue to hide the bag of CliMax in his closet. His mother eventually would find it, he'd know, and carrying it his bookbag would be plain foolish and academic suicide if he brought an illegal substance to school.

Jonathan was now nearing Shackborough Street and at this time of day it was predictably empty – most "business" took place within the confines of Shackborough itself, not on its outskirts. The filthy gray brick walls were covered with graffiti. He made sure the hiding place he picked for the drug was easily recognizable, but not too obvious. Over a large pile of dented and rusted trash cans were the large red graffiti words:

**HELL U R**

This was the place all right. From behind the trash cans Jonathan retrieved the clear, crumpled bag of CliMax, its white crystalline power sliding around innocently enough in the plastic.

_Jonathan, what do you need this for? Throw the damn drugs away!_

_(Because you'll need them!)_ the voice insisted darkly.

Jonathan looked at the bag, wanting more than anything to pitch it in the trash.

_(Put it in your pant's pocket. Trust me – and your needs, your **dreams** will be fulfilled in time.)_

Jonathan closed his eyes and slid the hated bag of drugs into his pant's pocket. He sighed and continued to wind his way down the street, nearing Shackborough. Although the day was sunny and warm, Shackborough Street was enclosed by two very large buildings, which always made it shady, cool and subsequently dark. It also remained a favorite spot for Falcone and his thugs, drug dealers and prostitutes. Jonathan was left pretty much alone; he was too poor and looked too weak for anyone to take notice of – except one.

"Hey, Scarecrow!"

Jonathan slowly turned around, a sudden weariness filling his heart. He was in no mood for Stan. He was so sick and angry of Stan and his incessant bullying. Surprisingly Stan didn't have his full entourage, just two of his cronies. Jonathan guessed beating him up that afternoon didn't take top priority when the weather was this nice.

"Scarecrow, you sent me on quite a chase the other day, but that means twice the play time today."

Stan stepped forward, his fists clenched, his muscles bulging in his black shirt. His cronies remained behind. Jonathan closed his eyes, all his Fear draining from him.

"Hey, Scarecrow," Stan laughed, pulling his fist back for the punch.

"Yes," Scarecrow replied.

Scarecrow suddenly opened his cool, blue eyes and swiftly stepped out of Stan's way just as his fist lunged out like a deadly cobra and struck – deep – with crunching fury into a brick wall.

Stan shrieked piteously in pain, clutching his injured and bloody hand. His cronies gazed wide-eyed and terrified. Scarecrow could sense their Fear and relished it. But Scarecrow had far more delightful and delicious prey before him; oh, the Scarecrow was so going to enjoy this.

Scarecrow stood before Stan, a slight, cold smile playing upon his lips.

"Yes, I am Scarecrow. You call this play time? I have a far better game we could play."

Stan, clenching his wounded fist, gazed in confusion and anger at the boy that once was Jonathan – but he was different, so different all of a sudden. He stood tall and his eyes were cold, near emotionless, with that cruel smirk on his face. So Jonathan was toying with him? He would show that him!

"I'm going to rip you apart for doing this," screamed Stan.

Suddenly Stan lunged at Scarecrow again, this time with his good fist, determined not to hurt, but to break a jaw, crush a bone or shatter a nose. But Scarecrow was quick – quicker than Jonathan ever could be – for in Stan's anger Scarecrow knew his fury was borne of Fear, Fear of losing control, Fear of looking foolish in front of his friends, and Scarecrow grew strong with each passing moment of Fear.

In one swift stroke, Scarecrow deftly slipped from his pant's pocket the bag of CliMax and as Stan rushed at him, the menacing fist ready to aim the devastating blow, Scarecrow forcefully threw its crystalline contents full into Stan's face.

Stan's bloodcurdling shriek hardly stopped business in Shackborough Street – not when they were used to gunshots in the far off distance or fierce beatings as a matter of business. Drug dealers, prostitutes and a few of Falcone's men casually looked with some interest at the screaming teenager clutching his face before resuming business once more. Stan's cronies had fled as soon as they saw the powder fly, fearing Scarecrow had more.

Now Stan that was on his knees, his face covered with his hands, shaking uncontrollably, he was entirely at Scarecrow's mercy – and Scarecrow became drunk with his feeble helplessness.

"Please, no! Please, stop! Help! Oh, God," Stan wailed through his hands.

Scarecrow slowly kneeled down beside Stan, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Gently, almost tenderly, he touched Stan's arm, knowing what it would do to him.

"No! No! _Please!_"

Scarecrow's touch felt like claws ripping deep into his flesh, clawing at him. Stan didn't dare open his eyes, fearing the terrors he would see. Already his heart was racing, his blood pumping with adrenaline, his mind flooding with pure nightmare.

"Do you know what it is I gave you," whispered Scarecrow.

Stan wailed. Scarecrow's voice sounded like the growling of a demon from the darkest pits of Hell.

"What I gave you is Fear," said Scarecrow. "Pure – delicious – Fear."

With each word Scarecrow grabbed hold of Stan's wrists, desperately clutching his eyes, desperately trying to block out the nightmares trying to flood his sight.

"I want your Fear," whispered Scarecrow, grimacing. "I _need_ your Fear. Tell me your Fear – your darkest Fear."

"No," wailed Stan, shivering uncontrollably. "_Please, no_."

"Tell me," Scarecrow screamed viciously.

Violently he tore Stan's hands from his eyes and stared at Stan's face covered in the deadly CliMax powder. Stan's face was twitching, his eyes wide, glazed with terror.

"Oh, God! Oh, God," Stan shrieked.

He writhed uncontrollably, struggling to get away from Scarecrow, crawling on his hands and knees across the filthy pavement. This was too good, too fun for Scarecrow to resist.

"No! No!"

Stan's vision clearly was distorted, for he crawled instead of to any safety, to a garbage heap in a dead end and curled up there, shaking. As Scarecrow slowly approached, savoring the sight of his victim just waiting there for him, Stan dared to gaze at him, his chest heaving, like a prey knowing it's about to die and wanting to see its murderer before falling into darkness forever.

Scarecrow hovered over Stan, slyly grinning, his eyes cold and keen upon his prone, helpless victim, drinking in all the Fear this delicious victim was pouring into him. How sweet it was, how very sweet. Fiercely, Scarecrow grabbed Stan's jaw, clenching it hard. He could hear Stan whimper, feel him trembling beneath his touch. Stan closed his eyes tight.

"I will not kill you," said Scarecrow. "If you tell me what you Fear."

Stan's eyes opened. His vision was glazed from the drugs and the trauma of whatever terror he was now witnessing.

Scarecrow bent close to his victim, his eyes cold.

"What do you see? What am I?

Stan's eyes widened, seeing his terror hovering so close to him, so close. A droplet of bright red blood began to ooze from his left nostril.

"I – you're –"

"What am I!"

"You're a monster," Stan screamed.

Scarecrow coolly smiled, his blue eyes like twin February ice.

"Good answer – for that the monster won't kill you."

Stan gasped in relief, his glazed, fearful eyes almost registering joy.

"But I shall leave you with a parting gift."

The plastic bag which held the CliMax was clenched hard in Scarecrow's hand. He held it up to the light. A few white crystalline particles still clung to the bottom of the sack.

"There's just a little left," whispered Scarecrow. He turned his cold, blue eyes to Stan, a cruel smile upon lips. "I wonder what the rest of it will do to you."

Scarecrow poured the rest of it up Stan's nose while he screamed.


	11. Cure or Kill

"I can't believe he did that," said Mrs. Jensen, shaking her head in disbelief.

"That young man sounds absolutely dreadful," gasped Mrs. Sweeney, taking a sip of her vintage sauvignon wine.

"And you say he has cold eyes? I hear only crazy, evil men have those," Mrs. Jensen hissed.

Mrs. Chesterton nodded. She enjoyed the support she found in her friends as she told them how truly awful Dr. Jonathan Crane was to her and how she would never _ever_ return to him ever again. They were dining at her favorite restaurant, _La Clariate_, and were finishing off a delicious, prolonged luncheon of roasted quail in fresh rosemary with spring potatoes and buttered asparagus.

"Honestly, I don't know what possessed you to visit him to begin with, Genevieve," sighed Mrs. Jensen. "He does have a dubious reputation you know."

"Dubious, yes, but he did cure that one woman, who was it?" Mrs. Sweeney looked up at the ceiling, searching her memory. "It was good ol' Judith Mariwell of the Shalley Family. You remember."

"Oh, that's right," Mrs. Jensen gasped, with a smile. "He did manage to cure her. Waiter, more wine. Thank yooou!"

"What? He did?" Now Mrs. Chesterton really was curious. Judith Mariwell was something of a legend she only heard bits and pieces of now and then.

The waiter brought another round of wine and the dessert menu. The women suddenly were more interested in the double chocolate torte than in discussing old Judith.

"Tell me about Judith," Mrs. Chesterton insisted.

"Oh," Mrs. Sweeney said, peeking up from behind the menu. "Well, you know she was terrified of even stepping outside her door."

"Couldn't even drag her outside for anything, if I recall," Mrs. Jensen continued. "And the more they let her be the more terrified she became until she couldn't stand to look outdoors. She closed all the windows."

"She was a strange bird, that old Judith," interjected Mrs. Sweeney. "Genevieve, you really should get a dessert. I think it would make you feel better."

"I told you, I don't feel like dessert," Mrs. Chesterton snapped. "Now tell me, what happened to Judith."

"Well, then the Shalleys heard of this new upcoming young doctor," continued Mrs. Sweeney. "They were shocked when they saw him – he looked like a boy

"He still looks like a boy," said Mrs. Chesterton.

"A creepy boy, from what I hear," Mrs. Sweeney snickered. "Anyhow, even though he was young and weak looking he would take none of her sass, from what I heard."

"The Shalleys gave him _carte blanche_, anything to cure her of her fear – and he took it," said Mrs. Jensen.

"I heard he'd chloroform her in her sleep then when she woke up she'd be outside, tied to a chair," Mrs. Sweeney giggled. "Oh, the racket and the fuss she'd make!"

"But he'd refuse to take her back inside, not until she got used to being outdoors. Gradually she learned to enjoy being outside," said Mrs. Jensen.

"And – and is she cured," Mrs. Chesterton asked.

Mrs. Jensen shrugged, taking another sip of wine.

"From what I heard she takes walks every afternoon, as happy as a bird," Mrs. Jensen replied.

"But you know a creepy doctor is a creepy doctor as they say," said Mrs. Sweeney. "I say get as far away from him as possible. Yes, double chocolate torte with extra whipped cream. Don't skimp on it now."

The waiter took down the order for the desserts. He looked to Mrs. Chesterton who shook her head.

"Now I know she really is ill, she loooves the torte," said Mrs. Jensen. "Make it two."

"I told you I'm not hungry," snapped Mrs. Chesterton. "Sorry. I just want these panic attacks to go away."

"Well, dear. I recommend someone new if you don't like said creepy doctor." Mrs. Jensen retrieved from her Italian leather purse a doctor's card. "He's highly recommended."

Mrs. Chesterton took the card and looked at the title. Yet another "head doctor." Unlike Dr. Jonathan Crane, he met all Mrs. Chesterton's expectations when she came to call. There were no weird patients, no odd darkened rooms, no cold staring and no feelings of unease. His name was Dr. Henry Worthing, a man in his mid-50s who had been practicing psychology for almost 20 years and had a solid reputation, especially among the elite.

His office was in upscale Gotham City and none of the low-lives Mrs. Chesterton saw frequenting Dr. Crane's office came to call. And unlike many of Dr. Crane's sessions, Mrs. Chesterton was prompted to do most of the talking while Dr. Worthing did most – well all – of the listening. He asked almost no questions while Dr. Crane asked many (and often unsettling) questions. It would seem Dr. Worthing would be the perfect match and Dr. Crane would be an unpleasant experience long forgotten except for one thing – the panic attacks were getting more frequent, especially when she was alone in her own apartment at night.

As Mrs. Chesterton was suffering one such panic attack, in a twisted bout of logic, at least one thing she could give to Crane, he did have a personal touch – Dr. Worthing never made house calls. Mrs. Chesterton shoved aside her latest romance novel, "The Temptations of Tully Templeton," and desperately grasped her purse, frantically searching for the medication Dr. Crane gave her. It was sedative far stronger than Dr. Westmeyer ever would dare prescribe to her and she quickly popped one of the pills into her mouth.

Just a few minutes after she swallowed she felt her heart rate drop, but still felt an unnatural terror as she gazed around the darkened room, at the ornate ticking clock with ivory hands and at the gilded wallpaper. Odd shadows seemed to twist and move into hideous shapes in her peripheral vision and she began to curl up around a velvet cushion. She couldn't call on one of her friends. They were safe at home with their husbands and families. They couldn't be bothered and she was all alone.

Suddenly Mrs. Chesterton did something she thought she would never _ever_ do. She began to rummage through her overstuffed purse, looking for Dr. Crane's card, hoping she didn't toss it in the trash when she received Dr. Worthing's card. Finally she found it, at the bottom her purse, next to the stale breath mints, rattling dimes and an unfamiliar key. She picked up the phone and called. Absently she gazed at the ornate ticking clock. Its ivory hands ticked to 1:30 a.m. The phone range once, twice, three times … then she heard that familiar voice:

"_This is Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm not in right now –"_

She was almost relieved it was a recording; it would be too bizarre to have him answer her in the dead of night from his office, yet she half hoped he would be there waiting there, to care for her when she needed him the most. She was almost – disappointed. The recording beep sounded.

"Dr. Crane, I – I know it's been over a month since my last session. I have not been doing well. I'd like to see you again soon. I –"

Mrs. Chesterton suddenly didn't know what came over her. Her lip began to tremble as she was flooded with a painful mixture of fear and sorrow.

"I – I'm just so alone! I'm so afraid and so alone!"

She slammed the phone down before she started bawling into the receiver. She reached for a second sedative pill and swallowed it, hoping it would knock her out and drown out her misery for just short while. It did not disappoint her.

* * *

_Bring! Bring!_

Mrs. Chesterton opened her bleary eyes, her vision swimming.

_Bring! Bring!_

Mrs. Chesterton couldn't ever recall the doorbell being so loud or so obnoxious. She was tempted to just roll over and fall back to sleep on the couch, then one word crept into her hazy mind.

_Crane._

With a labored grunt, she groggily pushed herself off the sofa and tried to steady her wobbly legs enough to make it to the door. If she had known the medication was this powerful, she wouldn't have dared take two. It took every effort of concentration to put one foot in front of the other and not fall on the carpet. When she finally reached the door and opened it, her vision was beginning to spin and the floor felt like it was tipping beneath her. As her legs failed her, two strong hands firmly caught her and she was gazing into those familiar, cool blue eyes.

"Mrs. Chesterton – you took those pills didn't you?"

"Y-yes, doctor. I – I took two."

"That's not good. Not good at all," Dr. Crane said matter-of-factly. "If I had known I would have come sooner."

In one swift motion Dr. Crane lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the couch. Even in her hazy mind she was somewhat surprised that a man who seemed to look so young and weak would be strong enough to pick up a woman such as herself (who certainly wasn't all that light) so easily. Gently he laid her on the couch and was about to turn away, but Mrs. Chesterton suddenly was so overjoyed with some company again that she reached up and wrapped her arms tightly around him sobbing gratefully.

Dr. Crane stiffened as though suddenly stunned. He had not been expecting her to do that and had grown accustomed to not being lovingly touched by anyone. For a brief moment a rush of memories and emotions came flooding back – to the last time he had been embraced. How loved he had felt then and a terrible ache was growing in his heart now that it was gone forever.

_This is a patient, Dr. Crane and not just any patient – Patient C. in a very promising study. Remember that!_

Dr. Crane quickly slipped out of her grasp.

"I'm glad you are happy to see me, Mrs. Chesterton, but I must keep my professional distance if I am to help you."

"Oh, yes. Oh, I'm sorry. Of course doctor."

Dr. Crane turned to his briefcase and snapped it open. He had been planning this for over a month. Scarecrow had promised his patient would return to him and so she had. But she was so highly medicated she would be no good in such a state. Dr. Crane gazed at Mrs. Chesterton on the couch. She was in her nightgown, her hair a mess and her makeup was smeared (she wore makeup to bed? – interesting) on her puffy face.

_She's pathetic, not worthy of her life, her wealth, anything, _hissed Scarecrow.

_No, let me try something first,_ thought Dr. Crane._ There is still promise for Patient C._

Scarecrow retreated; it was not playtime – yet.

Mrs. Chesterton looked up from her stupor and her eyes widened.

"Oh, please! Not more needles!"

"This is to help counter the effects of the medication – all that medication you were not supposed to take," said Dr. Crane chillingly.

Mrs. Chesterton nodded, then winced as the needle found a vein and soon the medication was coursing through her system.

"What was that," Mrs. Chesterton asked as she was rubbing her sore arm.

"Oh, I call it Solution 842A." Dr. Crane turned to her, a sly smile on his lips. "I made it myself."

"You patented it?"

"Oh, no. I made it myself. But I never submitted it to the government for approval – I don't need their approval. The main thing is it works."

Mrs. Chesterton suddenly had a sickening feeling that Dr. Crane's homemade concoction was now coursing through her body and she had no idea what was in it. But as minute after minute ticked away, her mind cleared and she began to feel better. She gazed at the young doctor with renewed admiration. He may look no older than 30, but he was a genius.

"I told you it worked," he said, with a smug grin. "Now on to your fears, these panic attacks have gotten so severe you nearly poisoned yourself with the medication I prescribed to you." He turned his cold blue eyes to her. "You know I don't like that."

"I – I'm sorry doctor."

"No, need for apologizes, Genevieve. I just want to help you."

She was so flustered she didn't realize Crane had for the first time just called her by her first name. He sat down on a velvet chair close to the sofa and gently held her hand in his. Although his hand was soft and smooth, it felt cool to the touch.

"Yes, I want to help you." He gazed at her with those piercing blue eyes. "That's all I've wanted to do was help you. Now tell me your fear – your darkest fear."

"I – no I can't," said Mrs. Chesterton, turning her face to the sofa.

For a brief moment she thought she felt his grip tighten on her hand, then it relaxed and gently massaged her hand.

"If you don't tell me, I can't help you," he said soothingly. "Now tell me. You are afraid – afraid of what, Genevieve?"

"I'm afraid of – of being alone."

"Yes, being alone. And why do you think that is? When did it start?"

"I – I think it began when my husband – Harold – he was gone on a lot on business trips – he left me alone a lot and I'd be waiting for him – waiting for him to get back."

"That made you nervous, didn't it," asked Crane.

"Yes, I was worried something would happen to him."

"And then you'd be alone for good," whispered Crane.

"I –"

Mrs. Chesterton turned her eyes from the couch and faced Crane and saw him gazing straight at her with those unnerving eyes, but there was something else she saw that frightened her for a moment – hunger. It was not a hunger of a man for a woman, but of a predator for a prey.

_No, it couldn't be, _she thought._ You're imagining that. You must be._

"Please continue, Genevieve."

"I – I guess it got worse after he died. I never had any children, as much as I wanted them," she said.

"And now you must face that he isn't coming back," said Dr. Crane, sitting back in his chair. "Your loneliness is not uncommon – it actually is a normal part of the grieving process, Mrs. Chesterton. I've dealt with it often. Fear, panic, anger – these are all normal emotions associated with grief, but if felt intensely over prolonged periods, if they are not dealt with, they eventually may cripple leading a normal life."

Mrs. Chesterton gazed at the doctor. How come she had not heard this from Dr. Henry Worthing? Maybe Dr. Crane could help her when all others had failed. He had gained a reputation for helping those patients when countless talk therapies and mild sedatives had done nothing – but tying old Judith Mariwell to a chair and leaving her outdoors until she learned to enjoy it? What sort of "therapy" was that?

"Genevieve, can I help you. Will you let me help you?"

Dr. Crane gazed at her, both his hands clasping hers. She looked up at him and again could have sworn she saw a hunger dwelling within those chilling blue eyes.

_Is she cured?_

_From what I heard she takes walks every afternoon, as happy as a bird._

"Yes, maybe you can help me, Dr. Crane," Mrs. Chesterton sighed. "Nobody else seems to be able to."

* * *

Genevieve Chesterton found herself in a third room wholly different from the other two rooms at Dr. Crane's office.

_Did he have this whole floor all to himself_, she wondered as he flicked on the lights in one of the darkened rooms.

This room was not like that awful sterile room she had been in before or his main office. It was reminiscent of the old-fashioned psychiatrist suites where patient comfort and doctor-patient intimacy were paramount. There was a fine plush leather chair nearby for Dr. Crane and a lovely reclining leather sofa for Mrs. Chesterton. There also was another leather chair just a few feet away if she didn't feel comfortable reclining.

"The choice is completely yours," said Dr. Crane, with a slight smile. "Whichever you are the most comfortable with."

Mrs. Chesterton didn't know how to reply, she had grown so used to Dr. Crane making decisions for her, telling her what was best in her treatment and now he was inviting her to make a choice – sofa or chair. She gazed into those icy blue eyes.

_What decision does he want me to choose? He's been so good to me. He came when I was so alone and now this beautiful room, not that awful cold white room like before. I don't want to disappoint him._

"Do you have a recommendation, Dr. Crane?"

"Well, you've had quite a lot of stress and I'd recommend you relax. It's best for your therapy and your health. You know I only want the best for you, Genevieve." Slowly he removed from his vest coat pocket a gold pen and a small notepad. "I think it would be best to take the sofa."

"Yes doctor, of course."

Mrs. Chesterton turned her back to him and hesitantly put her weight onto to sofa. It noticeably creaked and the leather squeaked under her weight. She winced.

_He's going to comment on how you are going to have to lose weight, Genevieve._

"Now tell me, Genevieve. We discussed your husband. But all fears are rooted much deeper. Tell me a bit more about your past. Your childhood is always a good place to start. Did you have come from a large family? Brothers? Sisters?"

Mrs. Chesterton gazed at the white tile ceiling and the dim soothing lights.

"No. I was an only child," she said.

"But I imagine you received much love as an only child, yes?"

"My father was away much. My mother was – was distant."

"So even as a child you felt an emptiness, an ache you longed to fill – and even then you were lonely."

"Yes," she said.

_I know the feeling well, _Dr. Crane thought, as he finished filling out his notes. _I think I can cure you Genevieve Chesterton – or maybe not. It's all up to you now._

He closed his eyes counting down. 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1.

_Riiiiiiiiing!_

His secretary was on time down to the second. He knew he was right in hiring her for her exceptional punctuality. Swiftly he picked up the phone.

"_Hello, Dr. Crane_," said the secretary.

"Hello. My God, a suicide attempt?" gasped Dr. Crane.

"_Dr. Crane, don't tell me we're doing this again_," sighed the secretary.

"I'll be right there. Keep her confined and sedated," said Dr. Crane.

He hung up the phone and Mrs. Chesterton sat up from the couch, her hand to her breast in shock.

"Oh, no. A suicide attempt? One of your patients?"

"Yes, I guess I failed in her treatment," said Dr. Crane in feigned grief. "But I will help her the best I can now. I will not interrupt our appointment, however."

"No, no," gasped Mrs. Chesterton. "You simply must help that poor girl. A suicide attempt, poor soul!"

"I will just make a few quick calls just to make sure she's sedated and comfortable – enough so she won't injure herself further, then continue our session. Thank you, Genevieve, for understanding."

Dr. Crane gave her a reassuring squeeze of her hand and smiled at her. She patted his hand.

"You're a good man and a good doctor. You'll be able to help her," she said.

Dr. Crane turned and gave her a sly smile before he left the room and the door clicked shut.

_2:42 – Patient C. seems to be quite comfortable. Resting on leather couch._

_3:15 – Patient C. begins to exhibit boredom and restlessness. Left couch and looking at diploma._

Dr. Crane was sitting in a small darkened room watching on a tiny black and white screen Mrs. Chesterton. All the rooms had hidden cameras and he was especially fascinated by how Mrs. Chesterton would react to being alone again. He made sure her settings were as close as possible to her home environment, with the comfortable sofa, the nice chairs, the walls of books and the assortment of distractions about the office, whether it be the globe in the corner or the plastic replica of a brain on his desk. Okay, the brain replica wouldn't be something she'd find in her apartment. He'd have to make note of that in his study.

_3:35 – Patient C. clearly becoming restless, pacing ensuing. Spending more time looking around the room at misc. objects._

_3:50 – For first time Patient C. tries phone to call receptionist. Phone has been disconnected. Aggravation level for Patient C. heightened._

_4:00 – Releasing air-borne dosage of fear-heightening Solution B721_.

Normally he'd be a bit more patient, but he was getting bored at watching "Patient C." wandering around the room and not having a panic attack yet. Perhaps she was more "cured" than he had thought? Well, the solution would help incite the fear and help her face that fear.

At first Dr. Crane didn't see much difference in the behavior of Patient C. She still seemed to aimlessly pace about the room very frustrated and angry, but then she began to clutch at her chest and gasp, and next she frantically fumbled for her purse.

_Good! Now the real show is about to begin_, whispered Scarecrow.

_4:05 – Patient C. takes Placebo for panic attack. Anxiety increasing. Patient C. begins screaming_

_4:07 – Patient C. still screaming, repeating, "Dr. Crane, come back, please! Please come back!"_

_4:09 – Patient C. trying the locked door – 12th unsuccessful attempt. Impaired judgement, now banging on the door and clawing the walls._

_4:15 – Patient C. now screaming, "Please come back, I don't want to be alone. I can't be alone! Please!"_

_4:20 – Patient C. now possessed by Rage. Now throwing objects around the room. Throws globe on the floor. Smashes brain replica._

_Damn! I loved that brain replica, _thought Dr. Crane.

_(Study note: Do not put anything of value in test subject room.)_

Dr. Crane glanced up at the black at white monitor flickering in the cramped dark room he was in, then slowly removed his glasses.

_You stupid, idiotic fool, _hissed Scarecrow._ You gave her too much of the solution_.

Dr. Crane scratched onto his notepad:

_4:25 – Patient C. collapses._

_I wanted to hear more screams,_ hissed Scarecrow._ I wanted to hear her cry! I wanted to see her tear into her face with her nails in panic!_

"You've heard and seen someone once before tear into her face like that – no more," screamed Dr. Crane.

Scarecrow for once was silent.

* * *

Dr. Crane walked down the hallway from the pristine, clean ward to the older section of the Arkham Asylum, which was built 150 years ago. It was always cold in the winter and hot in the summer with the occasional dull, overhead flickering fluorescent light, the peeling paint and the old radiator heaters that should have been replaced when the new wing had been built.

Dr. Crane turned the corner and passed into a narrow corridor he knew all too well. It was dimly lit because two of the overhead fluorescent lights had burnt out the night before and the janitors (who often didn't like going into this ward) hadn't replaced it yet. Dr.

Crane approached the nurses' desk. He ignored the cheap black plastic pen attached to the desk with a thin vinyl wire and instead slipped out his own gold pen from his jacket pocket and signed off on two papers at the nurses' station. The nurse, who looked

thoroughly bored, watched as he meticulously signed the forms in total concentration.

"Admitting yet another patient, eh, Dr. Crane," she murmured, wearily.

"Yes, Miss Kelley," he replied. "Suicide attempt, I'm afraid."

"Pity," Miss Kelley sighed, then popped her strawberry-flavored gum.

As he finished signing the forms, Miss Kelley gazed at them. One thing she noticed that was unique about Dr. Crane, unlike all the other doctors, his signature was very neat and extremely legible, all the letters perfectly formed – a study in excellent penmanship. She also looked at the new patient on suicide watch: Genevieve A. Chesterton.

"I believe all my patients are well. And –"

"You know where to go, Dr. Crane. She's where she always is."

"Thank you, Miss Kelley."

As Dr. Crane passed each door he made a note to peer in through each small, wire-enforced window to make sure everything was in order.

_Patient 201 – Appears calm and sedated. Patient 203 – Restless, needs to up medication. Patient 205 – Display of violent tendencies (beating the door), recommend restraint chair._

Dr. Crane continued to walk down the corridor until he reached Room 221. He paused for a moment before entering. The patient had her back facing him. It was a woman in her early forties, but her brunette hair, which had long since turned gray, hung lankly on her

shoulders. She was gazing out the small window at the rain droplets falling from the roof eaves on that dull, gray afternoon. It seemed she was completely oblivious of his presence.

He closed the door loudly enough for her to hear, but she did not move and it bothered him she no longer even acknowledged his presence. Surely she must have heard. He moved toward her and sat on the chair opposite her, gazing into her eyes. Her dull brown eyes were blank and lifeless, seeing past him – not seeing him at all. He studied her face, observing the haphazard scars upon her haggard and gaunt cheeks.

Dr. Crane had experienced many things from his patients – screaming, violent outbursts, hitting and cursing. He could handle all of those equally well, but what hurt Dr. Crane the most was not to be seen at all – to be ignored, to be forgotten. He looked to her hand resting on the armrest. The buckles of the heavy leather restraints had long been undone – she once was quite violent, but now never moved, never spoke, never acknowledged anyone, lost forever in her own mind.

Dr. Crane sighed and suddenly seemed very weary. Gently he took her frail hand into both his own and gazed into her blank eyes.

"Hello, mom," he whispered.


	12. The Gift

The sun beat unmercifully down on Jonathan. He could feel a droplet of sweat running down the back of his neck and his hair matting from the heat.

_Well, this morning's shower sure was wasted, _Jonathan thought.

Even though many of the seniors wore shorts and T-shirts beneath their graduation gowns in the blistering summer heat, his mother insisted he wear a dress shirt, pants and tie.

"Mom, they won't even see it under the gown," said Jonathan as his mother fixed his tie.

"I know," she said, with a soft smile. "But today is your big day. And I'll know you're wearing it."

Jonathan gazed at the sea of odd graduation caps and shimmering blue gowns – blue was the school color. He searched to find the telltale wavy locks that was Emily's and saw them three rows ahead and to the left. He wished Crane was closer to Andrews – that was Emily's last name. As the speaker droned on and the sultry heat grew more intense, Jonathan's eyes wandered elsewhere, looking behind him. A couple rows back he saw him – Stan Wekson. Suddenly Jonathan felt Scarecrow emerging from within him, maliciously smiling at his former prey.

_Oh, he was a fun one, wasn't he_, whispered Scarecrow. _After this we should play with him. He was too much fun the last time. So much Fear, so much screaming._

_No. Stop it now_, thought Jonathan. _You are to do that never again. You hear me!_

Jonathan remembered back to the last time with Stan. It was a mixture of nightmare and dark delight – a delight he didn't want to admit within himself. At first Jonathan was horrified Scarecrow threw the drugs into Stan's face and he was clearly in such agony. Then Jonathan slowly began to enjoy the feeling of power and control, the feeling that for once he was the one inflicting the pain on his hated tormentor.

But Jonathan grew lax, enjoying the vision of the bully turned to a sniveling, whining coward. He let Scarecrow gain too much control and by the time Scarecrow was shoving the last of the terrible CliMax drug up Stan's bloody nose, Jonathan's attempts to stop Scarecrow were of no avail. Scarecrow was awash in sadistic delight and Jonathan was forced to watch as Stan started to spasm, foam at the mouth and shriek until his throat was raw. Scarecrow hovered over, drinking up his torment until Stan could no longer scream and he collapsed upon the garbage pile exhausted.

_My God, you've killed him! What have you done_, cried Jonathan.

_He isn't dead. The mind – the body – can take much more than that,_ whispered Scarecrow. _Believe me. We shall return for our prey later – when he regains his strength._

_We shall not return at all,_ screamed Jonathan.

He closed his eyes tight, shoving the dark, twisted and hideous Scarecrow back into the shadows of his mind. There Scarecrow remained waiting, with a sick, demented smile upon his face.

_You will want me again and very soon_, Scarecrow whispered, and retreated into the darkness.

Now Scarecrow wanted to "play" again with Stan after the graduation ceremony.

Scarecrow was smiling maliciously at his previous prey and Stan caught eye contact. He must have remembered something from that terrible afternoon because his eyes suddenly clouded in fear and he turned away from Scarecrow's gaze.

_(Ah, good. See, he Fears us now, Jonathan. He beat you so savagely and tormented you for so long, now he shall taste real Pain, real Fear from us. It shall be sweet, will it not, eh, Jonathan?)_

_No, no, I can't._

_(And stupid, fearful fool that he is, you know he never told anyone what happened to him, too **afraid** of what they would think of him, **afraid** his friends would laugh at him. Big mighty Stan Wekson reduced to sniveling whiney baby by Scarecrow. No, he never told anyone, and still won't tell anyone. We have him, Jonathan, we have him and his Fear all – to – ourselves)._

_No, _Jonathan cried in his mind.

_(You are missing out on so much fun, Jonathan. Through Fear there is much Joy. You must know this_, whispered Scarecrow. _You have tasted it. Isn't it sweet?)_

Jonathan licked his lips, then gazed down the rows to the beautiful wavy brunette hair of Emily Andrews.

_No_, thought Jonathan. _I think Love is sweeter than Fear._

_(Naïve fool, you shall see you are not loved by anyone and that Fear is the only true Joy_, whispered Scarecrow.)

Jonathan almost sighed in relief. Scarecrow was gone for now and in some ways he hoped he was gone for good. He shifted in his uncomfortable metal folding chair and gazed past the bright blue streamers and the fluttering "Congratulations Graduates!" banner to the chain-link fence he used to stare at many a time before and after school.

Past the sunny and green confines on the school campus, through the chain-link fence was the heart of Gotham City. He passed through those wire gates every day – to the beatings of Stan, to the disappointments, the poverty, the cramped apartment and the lonely nights when he went to bed with hunger gnawing at his stomach. Past the chain-link fence was the real world, not this sunny, pristine lawn he was now sitting on in the sweltering sun, wearing this absurd graduation cap and polyester gown. He did fear what was to come, once he had a high school diploma in hand and he left the confines of Gotham City Central High School forever.

How many of these graduates had their fates sealed once they left this place? It was the same fate Jonathan had feared his would be: Finding a minimum wage job where his talents and intellect would be wasted, that he'd spend countless months, then endless years slaving away overlooked and forgotten.

When faced with such a miserable fate, Jonathan spent long hours, sacrificing sleep, diversions and a social life to earn the top grades needed to qualify for the most coveted – and most difficult to earn – scholarships. Then when a plain envelope bearing the scarlet crest of Gotham City University arrived in the mailbox, his heart pounded, his hands turned cold and clammy. His mother stopped stirring over the steaming pot; it was the same dinner they had many a night – spaghetti and tomato sauce (it was a cheap meal, though Jonathan had long grown tired of it).

His mother wiped her left hand on her apron while still holding the spaghetti spoon in her right. Although she was exhausted after pulling a 12-hour shift at the sewing factory, suddenly there was excitement shining in her eyes.

"Is that what I think it is," she said. "Open it Jonathan."

"I'm afraid to. What if –"

"Jonathan, you've worked like no other. If anyone has earned that scholarship it is you. Now open it."

His hands almost were shaking as he turned the envelope over and slowly tore at the paper. He slipped out the letter and unfolded it, afraid to read it. At first he just skimmed it, bracing for the worst. Then he looked over it again, his blue eyes widening.

"Jonathan, did you get the scholarship? Did you get the Arthur C. Stephens Scholarship?"

"No," said Jonathan. "No, I didn't get it."

"Oh, Jonathan. I'm so sorry."

"I got the Gerald Thaddeus Wayne Scholarship instead," said Jonathan.

His mother's eyes widened and she remained frozen, leaning back into the stove. Luckily she wasn't anywhere near the pot because she was so in shock she probably wouldn't immediately notice if she caught fire.

"What is the Wayne Scholarship, Jonathan?"

"The Stephens Scholarship is only partial, but the Wayne Scholarship is full." Jonathan turned the letter around to his mother, trying to fight back the tears in his eyes. "They only offer it to the top 1 of the graduating students in the state. I'm going to college mom. I can go to college."

"Oh, Jonathan!"

She dropped the spaghetti spoon; it clattered to the floor, splattering water and some noodles on the worn, time-yellowed linoleum tile as she clasped her son tight.

"I'm so proud of you, Jon! So, so proud of you!"

* * *

"And now graduates, as you go out into the world, a wonderful future awaits you. You will do great things," droned Principal Geoffrey Hardy. "But remember, as wonderful as power and prestige is, love, ideals, friendship are of even greater value."

"What bullsh-t," muttered a teenage boy a few chairs down from Jonathan.

"Congratulations, graduates," Principal Hardy concluded.

A flurry of graduation caps swirled into the air and it was with some relief the long, hot and extremely drawn out ceremony was over with. Jonathan strained to find Emily in the crowd as teenagers bumped and shoved, trying to get to their friends and family as quickly as possible for pictures and their post-graduation parties.

"Jonathan!"

A flash went off. Jonathan was annoyed; he wasn't even facing the camera and he wasn't smiling.

"Mom! I wasn't even looking at it this time."

"But I think your profile shot is the best," she said.

"I must have looked like an idiot."

She smiled indulgently at him.

"You're in far too much of a hurry to find someone. A friend?"

"Yes, a friend," said Jonathan. "I'll be right back and then you can take all the profile shots you want."

"Okay, but I'm holding you to it," she said, cranking the disposable drug store camera.

Jonathan shook his head, hoping he didn't lose the opportunity to find Emily in the precious moments he spent talking with his mom.

He began looking in the front row where Emily was sitting, hoping she'd linger there, perhaps to talk with her friends nearby, but no such luck. Now that teens were clustered into dense cliques; he knew it would be difficult to spot Emily if she was in one of them, Scarecrow would not be invited to come anywhere near them. Jonathan stopped as Scarecrow whispered malicious plans to hurt other teens who excluded and taunted him throughout his long years in high school. Jonathan shook his head and continued searching Emily.

Jonathan was making his way toward the bleachers, figuring her family would be there, when he heard someone behind him.

"Hey, who are you looking for?"

Jonathan turned around and met those familiar deep brown eyes and welcoming smile. Emily looked more beautiful than he remembered her, even though she was wearing that silly graduation cap and the gown's pleats were bunched awkwardly about her shoulders.

"I don't know about you, but I can hardly wait to get out of this stupid thing," she said, pulling at her gown. "I thought I saw your mom around here. Wasn't she the one waving in the stands?"

"Yes," Jonathan sighed. "That was her. She can get a little enthusiastic . . . No, I just wanted to thank you – for all your help on that behavioral study."

"Well, it was a team effort," said Emily, now suddenly looking a little embarrassed. "You were a great help, collecting all that detail, so meticulous. I never had any lab partner so meticulous before. It really made it much easier."

"But you were right you know," Jonathan said. "The whole hiding the toys thing was a bad idea. I'm glad you saw that."

Emily smiled, her beautiful brown eyes gazing into his, so warm and comforting. He felt he could be lost in them forever.

"Thank you, Jon. Well, it was an obvious deduction. Children like toys, without them they cry. We saw that with little Judy." Jonathan suddenly looked a little uncomfortable. "Regardless we got an A. We had the best project."

"We did, didn't we?"

"We made a great team."

Jonathan savored the moment and she gazed back at him, a soft smile upon her lips.

_Love is sweeter than Fear._

"Hey, Emily!"

Kevin Smithson bounded up, swept Emily into his arms and kissed her.

"There you are," Kevin said, then looked at Jonathan. "Why are you talking to the Scarecrow?"

"He is **not** Scarecrow! His name is Jon," snapped Emily, slipping out of his arms. "I worked with him in psychology."

"Well I hope you didn't work a little too closely, if you know what I mean," said Kevin.

"It never was like that, Kevin," Emily sighed, crossing her arms. "Please excuse his poor manners, Jon. He's usually not like this."

Jonathan gritted his teeth and gazed at Kevin Smithson. Kevin was a quarterback on the football team with rugged good looks, broad shoulders, strong arms, powerful legs and a muscular chest. Although he never stooped to the level of Stan, Kevin still enjoyed some light teasing and a few pranks directed at the class nerds. Jonathan remembered one time how Kevin tripped him at the top of a full flight a stairs.

"_Oops! Guess the Scarecrow is a little cluuumsy to-day!"_

And of course there was the annual spring water balloon toss, which always left Jonathan soaked and shivering. Now Kevin was holding Emily close in his arms and Jonathan struggled not to betray any emotion as Kevin grinned smugly at him as if to say:

_So you've been wanting my girl all this time? Well too bad! She's all mine! You never had a chance! Never!_

"So Jon, are you going to college now," asked Emily.

"Yes," said Jonathan. "I got a full scholarship – to Gotham City University."

"A full scholarship! Isn't that wonderful, Kevin," said Emily.

"Yeah, it's alright," mumbled Kevin. "I got a full scholarship, to play football at Penn State."

"Emily, are you going to Gotham City University," asked Jonathan.

It was his last shred of hope.

"I'm sorry, Jon. I'm going to Penn State too. It is cheaper and I do have a tuition discount there, my parents being alums there and all."

Jonathan felt his heart sink and his dreams of Emily fade to nothingness.

"Well kid, see ya around, eh," said Kevin, with a sly grin.

_I'll twist that grin of yours back into a scream!_

"It was nice seeing you, Jon," said Emily. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Jonathan forced a smile. "You too."

It took every ounce of energy to fight the disappointment welling up inside him as he walked away, surrounded by a sea of smiles and laughter.

* * *

Jonathan sat at his desk, gazing listlessly at his acceptance letter to Gotham City University. This should be the best day of his life. Everything he wanted was coming true, wasn't it?

"Jonathan Thomas Crane, I know you're sulking in there."

There were only two times his mother used his full name: When he was in big trouble or she was going to have a "talk" with him. She opened the door to his bedroom and stood there, her arms folded. She still was wearing the beautiful white and blue cotton dress she wore to the graduation ceremony. For once she splurged at the hair salon to have her brunette hair curled and styled for the special occasion. Normally she was the last one to spend money on such vanities when there were more practical and pressing matters such as electric bills and food to pay for.

"So why are you hiding in here for," she asked. "I'd think you'd be happy. How many times have I heard you go on how happy you would be once you graduated?"

"I am happy," he said.

Although he had turned around from his desk, he was trying not to make too much direct eye contact with her. She had an uncanny ability to tell when he was lying.

She moved from the doorway and started to neatly fold his graduation gown, which he had angrily tossed on his bed when he was alone.

"You know I was glad your class colors were blue. Brought out your eyes really well in the photos." She placed the folded gown on his bed. "It was that girl, wasn't it? You like her?"

"No, mom. She was just a friend."

Jonathan turned away and back to the desk, nervously fingering the acceptance letter.

"I think you like her," she said. "I could see it – the way you talked to her. There's no shame in it. She's very pretty."

"But she doesn't love me . . . It was stupid of me to think she would."

He felt like he was on the verge of tears and he fought it fiercely.

"Jon, honey. Jon, look at me."

He felt the soft, warm touch of his mother's hand upon his shoulder and the sweet scent of lilac – the scent of her hand lotion. Slowly he turned to her, his vision swimming.

"Jon, you're going to college! There are going to be so many pretty girls there. And from experience Jon, many girls are looking for someone like you – handsome and smart."

"You're biased mom," Jonathan said, forcing a smile.

"I'm not biased, I speak the truth. But I am proud of you, Jon, proud in so many ways. There were times I didn't know if you would survive to graduate high school." Tenderly she touched his cheek, her thumb upon an old scar left from an especially cruel beating

from Stan. "And I am proud you've stopped fighting."

Jonathan fought from wincing. He hadn't stopped "fighting"; he had stopped being beaten. Scarecrow had saved him.

_Scarecrow had saved him?_

"You know you are the first, Jonathan, or at least the first of the Crane Family that I know of to go to college."

Jonathan gazed at his mother, who suddenly looked so sad.

"You don't know how many nights I stayed awake worrying because – because I just couldn't afford to send you to college – not on what I make, Jonathan."

"Oh, mom –"

"But you were smart enough and you did it." She smiled with tears of joy in her eyes. "You were smart enough, Jonathan. I knew you could do it."

Now Jonathan was feeling terribly embarrassed; he didn't know what to say.

"I have a gift for you," she said.

She smiled brightly and before Jonathan could protest she went into her bedroom to retrieve it. When she returned she was holding a small, rectangular package wrapped in rich burgundy paper topped with a swirl of gold ribbon. It looked professionally wrapped from an upscale shop. Whatever it was must have cost her a small fortune. She handed him the package, her eyes alight and expectant.

"Go ahead and open it. It is your big day after all."

Jonathan was almost hesitant to ruin the beautiful paper and gorgeous ribbon. He couldn't recall having such a lovely gift before. But his curiosity quickly overcame the guilt that his mother spent more than she should have. He removed the ribbon and slipped off the paper. A fine leather black case greeted his finger tips and as he opened it there was a glint of gold.

"Oh, mom. It's too beautiful."

Inside the rich burgundy velvet was a gleaming gold pen, more the likes an executive or a doctor would own, not a poor high school graduate living just a few blocks from the Narrows.

"Look on the other side, Jonathan," his mother said.

Jonathan picked up the pen. It was perfectly smooth, exquisitely balanced and engraved at the center of the pen in graceful cursive were the letters _J.C._

"Mom, it's wonderful."

Jonathan hugged her close and she savored the moment, tenderly stroking his soft brunette hair.

"Thank you, mom. I won't let you down. I promise, I promise I'll make you proud of me"

"Oh, honey. I already am proud of you," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I already am."


	13. The Weevil

The doors of Arkham Asylum slammed shut, one door at a time, each heavy lock clicking into place as the door closed. It was a safety procedure that was as old as the asylum itself.

A $20 bill crumpled into an orderly's hand.

"I say he doesn't make it past 30 minutes," said Mike, one of the newer orderlies.

"Fifty dollars that he lasts an hour," said Joe, waving the new, crisp bill smugly.

"And I say $75 – $75 that you are _both wrong_," declared Schuster.

The orderlies' stunned silence was punctuated by the sound of the slamming thick metal doors of Arkham. Schuster was a good 20 years older than both Mike and Joe, whom he considered "spring chicks" in comparison to his long, hard years at the asylum. By comparison to Schuster, Joe and Mike were "pretty boys," handsome and strong while Schuster had a cracked left incisor from a particularly violent inmate five years ago and never bothered to repair it.

"Why bother fix it? I'm no looker," Schuster would say.

Schuster also had graying hair and a healthy bit of stubble he wasn't too fond of shaving before coming to work.

"I say both of you are wrong, boys," said Schuster. "Seventy-five bucks that he not only lasts, but he breaks the Weevil."

The Weevil was an especially notorious patient that doctors at Arkham Asylum usually couldn't stand more than a few minutes let alone treat. Mike and Joe laughed at Schuster.

"I think we should now commit you," cried Mike. "No doctor has broken the Weevil. The Weevil breaks the doctors."

"Oh, not this doctor. There is something special about him. The look in his eye – I don't know. Something different about him – chilling somehow," muttered Schuster, rubbing his chin. "If someone can break the Weevil, it's him."

"You're mad, but we'll take you're money all the same," snickered Joe. "And when he screams out, crying for his mommy, we'll drink to your health on your money at the bar tonight."

"Yer gonna lose fellas," said Schuster. "But a bet's a bet."

Schuster grinned, showing his yellowed, cracked tooth.

Slam! Clack! Slam! Clack! Slam! Clack!

One by one the heavy steel white doors of Arkham unlocked, sliding back the heavy bolts, letting the doctor through. He was oblivious as the doors closed and locked behind him. His eyes were to his notepad as he walked, busily perusing the patient's file.

Eric Amsters – a.k.a. The Weevil. Received name for the ability to creep into people's minds, including doctors.

_This should be fascinating. Finally perhaps even a patient worthy of study._

The last door slammed heavily behind the doctor and the young orderlies fought hard to suppress a snicker while Schuster gazed upon him with the utmost respect.

"And that is who you're willing to lose $75 to, old man," Joe laughed.

The doctor almost looked like a teenage boy dressed up in his father's best suit. He was a phenomenon to some, a "freak" to others, depending on who you talked to. Dr. Jonathan Crane, the youngest psychologist ever to graduate from Gotham City University with a dual doctorate _summa cum laud_ in biochemistry. Already he was known for his daring and bold research studies, rocking academia with difficult (if not disturbing) questions and controversial case studies into the foundations and possible "cures" to common phobias and fears. Dr. Jonathan Crane, a name already being talked about amongst academia (not always in positive terms) – and he wasn't even 30 yet.

So absorbed was Crane in the patient's file that Mike was tempted to trip the young doctor (who looked a great deal like the many nerds he used to torment in high school). To Mike, he seemed like such a little weakling, so different from what he heard of the so-called illustrious Dr. Crane. Surely they couldn't be talking about _this_ Dr. Crane? They had to be joking. He could beat him up in the washroom and nobody would be the wiser. No, this weakling wouldn't stand _5 seconds_ in front of the Weevil.

Crane stopped outside the now famous door of the Weevil, which didn't look any different from any of the other plain white metal doors. He momentarily looked up from the patient's file and gazed at Mike. Suddenly the young orderly was looking into those chilling blue eyes and Mike thought he saw something, a hint of whatever Schuster guessed at in the young doctor. It made Mike feel as though he wouldn't ever want to be at this young man's mercy, because he would find none.

"Is Mr. Amsters ready for treatment," asked Dr. Crane.

"Weev – I mean Amsters is ready, sir."

"Dr. Crane is sufficient, Mr. Peterson."

Crane gazed through the wire-enforced glass and his blue eyes suddenly seemed to turn as cold and as hard as steel.

"No, Mr. Peterson. I see he is not ready. I see you have not read my specific orders before my arrival."

Mike gazed dumbfounded while Joe fought to suppress a snicker and Schuster pretended to be arranging the plastic cups of the patients' medication.

"According to my specific orders, Mr. Amsters is _not_ to be restrained." Cranes eyes were ice. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Y-yes, sir – uh – Dr. Crane."

At that point Mike was hoping the Weevil would rip this self-pretentious nerd apart if he couldn't.

Mike went into the Weevil's room and quickly unbound him while Joe held the tranquilizing gun in case he decided to attack. To the contrary, the Weevil was more than overjoyed to be free of the restraining chair and even thanked them for it. Once Crane saw his orders were followed and the room was clear, he smoothed back the pages of the patient's file and confidently entered the dimly lit room.

Slam! Click!

The Weevil's eyes lit up with the sound of the heavy door slamming and locking behind the young doctor.

"So you're here to cure me," whispered the Weevil. "I heard the Crane was coming. That they would send the Crane."

"And so they have sent me, Mr. Amsters."

"No, no, no. Call me Weevil." His pale gray eyes lip up. "I like that so much better. Amsters – Amsters is the name of my father. Don't like my father. No, no don't like my father. Amsters also rhymes with hamsters. Hate hamsters. Like weevils. Teeny tiny beetles burrow, wiggle, deep down deep."

The patient known as the Weevil wasn't physically imposing. Crane had met many more frightening people in many a dark alley in his day. But the Weevil had a quiet, insinuating menace about him that Crane could automatically sense. Weevil's sandy blond hair partially obscured an old, nasty scar across his forehead. Weevil eagerly put his hands on the bolted-down stainless steel table while nervously fidgeting with his fingers. Crane took a seat opposite him, opening the patient file and removing his gold pen.

"No, you can't be the Crane. They promise me the Crane. They say the Crane pecks your eyes out if you don't answers his questions right. You can't be the Crane."

Weevil squirmed in his restraining chair, licking his lips, his bright gray eyes hungry. Dr. Crane narrowed his cool, blue eyes.

"I see you suffered abuse as a child. Tell me a little about that."

"Abuse? What abuse? Oh, this kind?" Weevil brushed back his hair, proudly showing off the scar. At that moment, with the hair out of his face, Crane noticed the Weevil was quite a young man, not much older than himself.

"Scars are fun, eh," cried Weevil. "People can see them. They point. Eyes looking, always looking. Oh, look at the pretty scar! Hands touching all over! Scar, scar, scar! We love scars, don't we? The Crane pecks fresh scars. Does the Crane drink blood?"

Dr. Crane suddenly looked up from his notepad, which was quickly filling up with notes.

"I think the Crane drinks blood because the Crane scars and the Crane hunts, don't we Crane? The Crane has monsters he needs to feed."

His pen stopped dead on the pad of paper.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes. The Weevil listens for the flapping of Crane's wings. I hear where the Crane nests. Poor filthy early nest for the Crane, not bird but rat nest, filthy gutter Narrows rat!"

Crane's eyes grew intense, his eyes ablaze with both fire and ice.

"I see the abuse came from your father," said Crane. "That must have been especially traumatic. Was he the one who gave you that wound?"

"The Crane is a filthy Narrows rat. I had a father, but Crane rat probably didn't even have a father. Filthy bastard son of a whore –"

"_You!_"

Crane was gripping the gold pen tightly as though it was a dagger he was about to jam deep into Weevil's heart. Weevil gazed at Crane, his eyes bright with sadistic pleasure, a malicious grin spreading over his lips.

"Poor bastard Crane nothing," Weevil laughed. "Nothing but bones and rags. Wears fancy suit, but still filthy gutter rat, still whore-son from the Narrows."

Crane slowly removed his glasses and gazed with chilling precision at Weevil.

"Tell me, Mr. _Amsters_, when you were being abused, that must have been so traumatic for you, especially coming from someone so trusted and admired as a father. You must have felt such pain and shame wondering 'What, what did I do? Why doesn't he love me?'"

"Shut up, whore-son!"

"And you must have been so afraid, constantly wondering when he'd do it again, never knowing when or where, always listening for his footsteps on the stairs, his hand at the doorknob."

"Shut up, filthy gutter-rat!"

"Minutes, hours, days creep by never knowing when you will feel that hand, that knife, the pain when you should have felt nothing but love from your father."

Weevil screamed. In an instant he violently lunged across the stainless steel table, clawing for Crane's throat. He didn't strive to fend off the attack or protect his neck in the least as Weevil's steely grip clamped down upon him. Suddenly Weevil felt the telltale pinprick of a needle sliding into a vein, pumping him full of some unknown drug, which he knew within seconds would reach his brain.

"Crane has killed me," screamed Weevil. "The Crane has killed the Weevil!"

"No," said Crane, a slow, malicious smile spreading across his lips. "Now you will tell me of your father, the abuse, your darkest fears – _everything_."

A heart wrenching shriek followed by a wail pierced the thick metal door. The orderlies soon heard frantic sobbing and pleading that grew more pathetic until it degenerated into inane babbling.

"That's it, Crane's done for," said Joe smugly.

"Pay up, old man," said Mike.

Slam! Click!

Young Dr. Jonathan Crane stood outside in the hallway, furiously taking down notes. From the amount of pages he'd already written, it looked like he was planning to write a book.

"Mr. Peterson, I recommend you give Mr. Amsters a strong sedative. I fear the session proved to be a bit too stressful for him today."

"I – uh – yes, Dr. Crane."

Without further word Crane turned his eyes back to his notepad and swiftly continued writing as he walked down the hallway. Mike and Joe gazed in shock at the young doctor.

"Pay up, boys," mumbled Schuster, smiling.

Grudgingly they crushed the bills into his calloused hand.


	14. Inside the Asylum

Dr. Jonathan Crane was not where he wanted to be yet at Arkham Asylum. In fact he was a bit disappointed and anxious he did have the power and prestigious he had hoped for, especially after his recent successful session with Mr. Amsters (a.k.a. the Weevil). After two years at the asylum, Crane still was very much a junior psychologist, given "busy work" and the worst patients while the senior psychologist, Dr. Henry Gooding was the public face of Arkham and took most of the credit for the near miraculous cures Crane was able to pull off from many of the patients deemed hopeless by many doctors, especially Gooding.

As he was gazing at the piles of paperwork, flipping through the patients' files at the numerous psychosis and dementias, Crane remembered back to where it began: Dr. Theodore Hacker.

* * *

"My job here at this university is not to be your friend," said Dr. Hacker. "My job here is to teach you the secrets of the mind and how to unlock them."

Dr. Theodore Hacker was a highly-esteemed if not one of the most controversial psychology professors at Gotham City University. Unlike Mr. Chambers at Jonathan's high school, he was dressed sharply in a gray suit with a crisp white dress shirt and black tie. His hair, although it was still dark, was beginning to go slightly gray where he slicked it back by his ears. What he lacked in youth he made up for with intensity shining from his dark eyes.

Dr. Hacker also had the privilege of teaching freshman psychology in an overcrowded auditorium, which he clearly loathed.

"If any of you need to satisfy your core requirement, but don't have to take my class, don't waste my time and I won't waste yours," he said in his opening speech to the class. "Get out. No, I'm not joking. Don't laugh. Get out – right now."

A few students actually left the stuffy, packed to the ceiling auditorium. Jonathan was too busy being fascinated with this brash professor. This fascination changed after he turned in his first psychology paper.

"Mr. Crane, may I see you a moment?"

Jonathan quickly packed up his books and his huge stack of notes from class as the students filed down the long, narrow aisles of the auditorium. Jonathan gazed expectantly at his teacher as he approached his nicked and scratched heavy maple desk. Dr. Hacker slid out Jonathan's research paper without looking at it; it was easy to find – it easily was the thickest paper in the pile.

"Mr. Crane, what nonsense is this," asked Dr. Hacker, flapping the paper in front of Jonathan.

"My research paper on phobias," Jonathan answered.

"It is trite, pointless and boring," said Dr. Hacker, throwing it with disgust on his desk. "Mr. Crane, I don't understand. You clearly are one of my brightest students. You ask some of the hardest questions, questions some of my colleagues never would dare ask. Your mind is sharp, even daring, but this … Why are you playing it safe – for a grade? Is a grade more important than unlocking the mind?"

Jonathan was dumbfounded at what to say. He clutched his books to his chest as though they were a life preserver in turbulent seas.

"I – I so much want to explore the mind, but my scholarship depends on my grades."

Dr. Hacker gazed at him with those piercing near-black eyes.

"So a grade _is_ more important to you than asking the hard questions, but without striving, without daring, you will not reach your full potential, Mr. Crane. If that is what you choose you'll be nothing but a mediocre psychologist, like so many now out there, spouting their milquetoast feel-good drivel to clients wealthy enough to afford it, but too neurotic to be helped."

Hacker shoved Jonathan's paper toward him.

"If you want to be mediocre, pick up that pathetic drivel you call a research paper," said Hacker. "But if you want to do something unique, inspiring, perhaps finally put that mind to good use, then you will write me another paper."

"But – but I don't have enough time," said Jonathan.

"That's what the failures say. Are you one of them, Mr. Crane? Do you choose to be a failure?"

Jonathan's eyes turned to his research paper resting on Hacker's desk. Until five minutes ago he had been very proud of it.

"No," Jonathan whispered. "I don't want to be a failure."

"Good. Then I expect another research paper in say – a month. Good luck to you."

It was then that Jonathan Crane began his long relationship with Arkham Asylum, first born out of desperation from a demanding teacher. Where else could he go to but an institution he knew so well growing up, almost in its shadow, just a few miles from the Narrows?

Arkham Asylum was the equivalent of the haunted house down the street, only you couldn't knock out the windows with rocks – bars covered the windows and the spectral faces gazing back at you were very much alive.

Jonathan wondered about the stories behind those faces and what went on in their minds. Now Jonathan entered through those thick metal gates on his teacher's permission and studied inmates with crippling phobias – phobias that made it so impossible to function it landed them in Arkham.

After Jonathan's brief research stint at the asylum, he continued to return throughout his graduate and doctorate work to Arkham. Quite simply, once he entered, he became fascinated, one even would say obsessed, with the inmates and their disorders. Unlike many of the new doctors who lacked self-confidence or were intimidated by some of the more violent patients, the more extreme the patients, the better for Crane.

He would treat not only the patients no one would dare to touch due to their volatile and sometimes frightening behaviors, but would help patients doctors had long given up hope on. Crane most often could be seen in the oldest wing of Arkham Asylum, commonly known as the Lost Causes Ward.

When Crane first transferred to Arkham, fresh from the university, it was a shock he didn't apply to teach at a prestigious university or open his own practice. Arkham normally was where the least promising psychologists went who couldn't get work elsewhere and here was Gotham City University's best and brightest coming to work at a run-down asylum filled with some of the poorest and most violently insane patients in the city.

It seemed like young Dr. Jonathan Crane, who seemed like nothing more than a bookish, meek teenage boy, had a taste for death, but something very bizarre happened once he came to Arkham. Some of the most violent and sadistic patients – whom the senior psychologist Dr. Henry Gooding made sure Crane treated soon after he arrived – became uncharacteristically submissive around the young doctor. One woman, who seemed lost in her own world for five years, after a few treatments, began to respond to outside stimuli – although she always seemed terrified of Crane.

But working at the asylum was not without its benefits. Although it wouldn't seem it, the asylum was of interest to public figures who were especially interested in this young new promising doctor. It was exposure Crane wouldn't have received locked away in the ivory tower of academia or in a brand new private practice. And as much as Dr. Gooding tried to downplay Crane's achievements, word was getting out that his unconventional (some said unethical) methods were getting results.

Another added advantage was it was close to where his mother lived. Although he had grown to be an independent bachelor with his own apartment, his mother had not moved from where he had grown up and he worried about her. As he sat in his office, gazing at the piles of paperwork, his mind wandered out to the dark, steel-grated window dripping with rain.

* * *

_Knock! Knock! Knock-knock! Knock! _

It was Crane's own private knock code so she'd always know it was him.

"Jonathan!"

Quickly she unbolted the door and threw her arms around him.

"Oh! I'm so glad to see you! So glad! And what brought you back here? I know you're so busy these days."

"Do I need an excuse? But if you need one, I guess this is sufficient enough."

He handed her a plain brown paper bag and she gave him a look of "What did you get me now? You don't need to give me anything." She opened the bag and carefully removed a delicious cinnamon apple cake with a melted sugar glaze on top.

"Oh, Jonathan! This looks wonderful! But you are evil! I'm trying to watch my weight you know."

"You have nothing to watch," he said with a slight smile. "You look great mom."

"Always the flatterer," she said. "I'll put the coffee on and we'll have some tonight."

As he heard the soft clatter of saucers and coffee cups in the kitchen, he looked about the apartment. The old sofa was sagging, the stuffing coming out in the corners. The plaster was beginning the crack and peel on the walls and the aging floor tile was yellowed and grimy. It wasn't because she was a bad housekeeper; it's just the apartment was old, the furniture dating back from his childhood and he could afford much better for her now.

As she came back with two saucers of steaming coffee and two plates, he pressed his hands together, wondering how and when to phrase this.

"So mom, how's work at the factory? You're no longer working there I hope?"

"Oh, not anymore. I'm much happier now. You remember Mary Stanley? She has a tailoring store and I now have a job there as a seamstress. The hours are much better and I'm paid a bit more."

"But you still take the train to get back home at night, is that correct?"

"Of course, Jonathan. It's still too far to walk. Why do you ask?"

He took the coffee and began to sip from it and grimaced.

_Forgot to add the sugar._

"I – I was just wondering mom. You know the place where my apartment is? It's a much nicer area and the rent fees are low."

"You want me to move, Jonathan? After all these years here? This my home – where your home is."

"It's just I want you to be safe."

"Jonathan Thomas Crane, now who is mothering whom?"

She took a bite of her cake.

"Mmm! Oh, this _is_ good cake!"

"Mom, it's just – at the asylum, sometimes we get criminals, the criminally insane. I treat them."

"Dear Lord no, Jonathan!"

Her fork clattered to plate and she gazed at him in stunned silence.

"Mom, you know it's no secret where I work and who I work with day in and day out, but these criminally insane, many do come from here, not far from here and more seem to come the longer I stay there. But this area is dangerous mom and I want you to move, for your own sake. You can stay with me until you find an apartment you like and –"

"Jonathan, I'll be fine. Who I'm more worried about is you. The criminally insane? You never told me about that! Are you all right? They haven't hurt you, have they?"

"No." He smiled. "On the contrary, they have helped me a great deal."

"I'm so relieved. But Jonathan, I've noticed something else – something has changed – your eyes. They have changed somehow. I don't know what."

He was almost afraid to meet his mother's gaze, almost afraid that she'd see Scarecrow gazing back at her.

"No, I'm being silly I think," she said, shaking her head and smiling. "Now finish your coffee before it gets cold. And I'll be fine, Jonathan. All these years I've taken care of myself quite well. Shadows won't scare me now."

* * *

Crane gazed at the rain dripping off the grate of the window. Even in the doctors' offices there were bars on the windows at the asylum in case a patient decided he wanted to escape by diving through the glass.

The phone rang. Without looking Crane swiftly picked it up.

"This is Dr. Jonathan Crane speaking."

"_Dr. Jonathan Crane? This is Mercy Hospital."_

"Yes. Is there a patient you need me to see for mental evaluation," asked Crane.

"_Uh, no, sir. Sarah Anne Crane is your mother? Isn't she, Dr. Crane?"_

He froze, his fingers clenching the black plastic receiver of the phone.

"_I'm sorry to give you word of this, Dr. Crane but – but she was admitted just a half an hour ago to the hospital."_

"What's the matter with her? Is she okay?"

All semblance of composure evaporated from the normally cool and collected Dr. Crane. His teeth gritted and his nails dug into the plastic of the phone. Without saying "goodbye" or "thank you" he slammed the phone down, then thought better of it. He turned around and smashed the phone into the grated window.


	15. Suicide Watch

The drive to Mercy Hospital was a blur as was the walk down the near-deserted hospital hallway as Crane approached the late hours of the morning. Time seemed to slow and a sickening feeling grew in his stomach the longer he stayed from the room where his mother was.

"Before you can visit your mother I need you to sign these forms," said the nurse.

_I will see her **now**_, screamed Scarecrow.

Crane clenched his teeth, writing so hard on the forms with the gold pen it nearly tore into the paper.

"Thank you, Dr. Crane. Right this way," said the nurse.

And that was what brought him here, now to this point. He sat on the cheap blue plastic chair, waiting to awake from this nightmarish hallucination. Maybe one of the mental patients finally got to him, beat him senseless and he couldn't remember it or he accidentally drugged himself with one of his own nameless concoctions. That _must_ be it and this was some terrifying, sickening fever dream.

_Oh, God. It **had** to be!_

Momentarily he closed his eyes tight, half hoping the vision would be gone when he opened them again, but no, it was still there when he opened his pale blue eyes. Tentatively he reached out his hand and felt his hand trembling, a hand that never trembled even when gripped by the insane wielding a knife or slammed against the wall. Dr. Jonathan Crane, the doctor at Arkham Asylum who knew no fear, and he was trembling now.

_Oh, mom._

His hand stopped short of touching her, hovering just short of her cheek, afraid to touch it, afraid he would hurt her. Her left eye was completely swollen shut with a black eye, her right cheek was cut and deeply bruised, her lip was split and bloody.

_God, mom, who did this to you? Because whoever did – whoever did this will suffer forever – more pain than this! I will make him pay. He will scream, scream until he can no longer speak! I will rip him apart!_

"Dr. Jonathan Crane?"

He turned toward the voice coming toward the door and saw it was a Gotham City Police Officer.

"May I have a word with you, please?"

Crane's eyes narrowed in suspicion and loathing.

_Why weren't you around when she needed you? You sickening corrupt lap dog of Falcone!_

Reluctantly he left his chair and followed the officer out of the room. Crane soon found himself wishing he was back in the hospital room with his mother. He was in a private room, obviously reserved for those insipid, pathetic guidance counselors and sappy hospital chaplains because on the maple table was a box of tissues with stars and smiling faces and on the wall was a cross and a banner saying "Smile. Jesus loves you!" The only consolation Crane could receive was thinking of all the ways he could make this young, fresh-faced officer scream back at the asylum if he was one of his patients.

"Dr. Crane, thank you for taking time during this very difficult period for you. My name is Officer Jeremy Meyers and I work with Gotham Precinct 59. I believe you are aware of that precinct. It is where your mother lived."

"I am aware of that precinct. I grew up in that precinct," said Dr. Crane. "Don't patronize me, Officer Meyers."

"Well, Crane –"

"_Dr._ Crane."

"Dr. Crane, at around 8:43 p.m., Sarah Anne Crane allegedly was assaulted –"

"_Allegedly?_ How quaint of you Officer Meyers. My mother is lying bloody and unconscious in the next room and you call it _alleged_. Maybe she did it to herself?"

"Dr. Crane, it's all part of court proceedings, innocent until proven guilty."

_The assh-le who did this is guilty and deserves to burn eternally in Hell as far as I'm concerned. Forget court proceedings!_

"Anyway, Dr. Crane, she was allegedly assaulted and – I know this is difficult to hear – but most likely allegedly sexually assaulted. We have recovered DNA."

_You pathetic, corrupt little lap dog sh-t! Where were you! Eating doughnuts and laughing with your pals when she needed help! I will make you scream! Feast on your Fear! I will make you pay! You sit there Mr. Police Officer just doing your pathetic job while she's beaten, bloody! You smug little sh-t!_

"I know this is a huge shock to you, Dr. Crane. Please, take a deep breath. But I have good news. The DNA is confirmed and we have the man on file. His name is Chuck "a.k.a. Snake" Machiano. He's on the streets and our guys are out hunting for him right now. By morning he'll be booked and behind bars. Don't you worry about it."

Crane caught a glimpse of "Snake" Machiano's photo as Officer Meyers opened the file. From the looks of it the bastard had a long and extensive history. As Meyers was about the snap the file shut Crane put his hand in it.

"If you don't mind, Officer Meyers, I'll take this." Dr. Crane plucked out the black and white mug shot of Snake Machiano.

"Hey, that's police evidence, you're not allowed to!"

"You failed to protect my mother this night and you have failed to apprehend him yet. This is the _least_ you can do for me," said Crane, his eyes fixed in an icy glare upon the young officer.

"Good day, _Crane_! I'll call you if we need further questioning when she wakes up."

As the door slammed shut Crane gazed at the photo of the Snake. He was not your typical thug, very handsome with fine chiseled features and slicked back crew cut hair. Crane had his suspicions he was one of Falcone's men too, but it would have to wait. He slid the photo neatly into his suit jacket and returned to the hospital bed. He had far more important things to address right now.

"Mom? Mom," he whispered, gently touching her hand.

It was the only thing that didn't seem bruised. Suddenly the hand sprung to life.

"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

The hand struck him hard across the face with a stinging blow. His glasses clattered on to the sterile linoleum tile floor.

"Mom, it's me! It's okay! Jonathan! It's Jonathan!"

"Jonathan? _Jonathan?_"

Her pale brown eyes gazed at him from afar in a traumatized daze.

"Oh, Jonathan. Oh, my dear, Jonathan!"

Slowly, gently she sat up in pain and slid her arms around him. She began to tremble, then shook violently as she began to cry.

"Oh, Jonathan," she wept, clinging desperately to him.

"It's okay, mom," he whispered, closing his eyes. "I'll make everything okay."

* * *

Her footsteps paced back and forth, back and forth across the floor over and over again. Dr. Jonathan Crane looked upon it with unease. It had been several weeks since she had been released from the hospital and although her wounds were healing well, Crane knew better about the mind not healing so quickly or so easily.

"Mom, are you okay? I can prescribe you something?"

"Drugs? Oh, no, no. I'm okay, Jonathan. Really. I'm strong enough to handle this. Really, I am," she said, her arms folded tightly together while periodically rubbing them. "I'm glad you visited me. I get lonely sometimes in this empty apartment."

"I think you should consider moving. Move to my apartment until you get your own."

"Really, Jonathan, I'm not going to cramp your style! Have your mother move in with you! What will your girlfriends think?"

"Mom, I don't have any girlfriends right now."

"Well you should! You should have girlfriends! What did I tell you way back, someone with your looks and talent will have lots of girls! You should have girls!" Tears were forming in her eyes. "It's just not fair! Not fair!"

"Mom –"

"No! You should have a life of your own! And get out of that asylum. It's killing you! It'll drive you mad one day, mad! You'll end up in a straightjacket like one of your patients! Get out now, now Jonathan!"

"I'm prescribing a mild sedative for you –"

"I'm not taking _anything_!"

She collapsed on the green sofa, her cheeks wet with tears. Angrily she wiped them away.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan. I didn't mean to be like this. You'll hate visiting me. You'll never want to come here again – ever."

"No mom, not at all."

"I just, God I hate being alone now and you're at the asylum for so long."

"I'll always come and visit you mom. You won't ever be alone. I promise."

* * *

Crane sat in Room 204B of the Lost Causes Ward recording the behavior of Maggie, who seemed unusually active today. Maggie was a white-haired woman in her mid-60s with wide-staring hazel eyes and a round face. She also was perpetually smiling. At the moment she was obsessed with the letter A and was writing it over and over and over again on a chalkboard while muttering "Ahhh, Baaah, Maaah, Faaah, Waaah, Saaah."

"Okay, Maggie, that's enough for today," said Crane.

"Vaaah, Aaaah, Baaah, Saaah."

"Maggie, that's all –"

"Waaah, Laaah, Taaah."

Crane rolled his eyes and gazed out the bars of the window at the empty track a few blocks from the asylum. He checked his gold watch – 2:43 p.m. The Wayne Train normally whisked by at 2:40 p.m. – it was running late today.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Crane.

"Dr. Crane, phone call for you on Extension 55," said Judy Fischer, one of the newer daytime nurses.

"Thank you."

Dr. Crane picked up the phone right in the room. He didn't worry about Maggie overhearing. She was still stuck on the letter A without showing any signs of progress.

"_Dr. Crane, this is Officer Steve Carlson at Precinct 59_."

"Yes, what is the status of Machiano? Is he being prosecuted?"

"With all due respect, sir, that is not why I'm calling."

For the first time Crane was speechless.

"Your mother, she was found on Track 24 of the Wayne Train inbound for the 3:14 p.m. Gotham City Central Station."

"Is she – is she dead?"

"No, we took her off the track in time, Dr. Crane, but you best come down to the station."

"And why is that officer?"

"We're about to book her. Attempted suicide in Gotham City is a criminal offense, Dr. Crane."

* * *

Dr. Crane stared hard at Commissioner Steve O'Shannen with those icy blue eyes.

"Commissioner O'Shannen, a suicidal patient doesn't get well sitting in a prison cell. A suicidal patient is 90 percent more likely to attempt to take her life again if she does not receive _immediate_ psychiatric treatment. Now I can provide that treatment, treatment she so desperately needs."

Crane was reciting what he learned by rote when committing patients to suicide watch at Arkham. He was relieved in a way he didn't have to think or concentrate too hard on just who the patient was – his mother – or else he wouldn't have the composure or even the concentration to frame a coherent sentence.

_Keep it professional and be convincing and you'll be able to get her out of this._

"I don't know, Dr. Crane. The law states someone who tries to commits suicide – on public property no less –"

"I know commissioner, it is difficult and I am greatly appreciative of all the fine work you and your police officers have done in saving her life. I can't thank you enough."

"Well, just doing our job. All in a day's work, y'know."

"But you can help Mrs. Crane more, much more, if you release her to my care. As a doctor at Arkham, I can give her full psychiatric treatment."

"Whoa, wait a minute, buddy," said O'Shannen. "You're her _son_."

"That I may be, but I'm a fully licensed practicing doctor. I assure you I am well-qualified –"

"It's not just that, she committed a crime and she's gonna get locked up. Sorry, son."

"Actually, commissioner, there is a loop hole in the law you may not be aware of."

Crane slipped from his suit jacket some white papers and handed them to the wizened commissioner.

"According to section 84-14B of Law 74 Section A any Psychiatric Professional at a Psychiatric Institution may take full responsibility for a suicidal patient if said professional verifies said patient is indeed suicidal and is a danger to herself at the correctional facility."

O'Shannen quickly gazed at the microscopic print on the pages of law.

"This is madness," cried O'Shannen.

"Precisely, commissioner. Now let's start working on the paperwork for the release forms. I'd like to have my patient out of here by nightfall."

* * *

"I'm sorry, Jonathan. So sorry."

"You don't have to say a word, mom. We can talk about it once we get there."

She rubbed her tired eyes. Her hair hung lankly over her face. He kept his eyes fixed on the road as he drove, the windshield wipers flicking back the rain.

"You must be so disappointed in me, Jonathan. I've been strong up until now. I just – I can't stop thinking about that night. It keeps haunting me, every detail of it. I just wanted it to stop –"

He sighed, gripping the wheel.

"You're suffering from post-traumatic stress. Where we're going I can help you, but you have to trust me, mom. You must trust me."

The car stopped outside the foreboding thick metal gates. A guard reluctantly poked his head out of the shelter window.

"Welcome back to Arkham, Dr. Crane." the guard gazed at Crane's mother. "I hope that's not a patient. She's not properly restrained."

"No, she's a visitor – coming to see a patient of mine," said Crane.

"Visiting hours are over, Dr. Crane," said the guard.

"I'm sure you'll make an exception for me, George," said Crane, slipping some folded bills into the guard's hand.

"Have a nice visit, Ma'am," the guard said cheerfully.

As the guard disappeared back into shelter, Crane's mother turned to him.

"Jonathan, I thought we were going home? Why are we here?"

"Mom, you know you need help – this is the only place I know best to help you."

She looked at the asylum gates as though they were the entrance to Hell.

"Oh, please, Jonathan, no! Please, no! Please, don't make me go in there! I'm not that bad! Not so bad yet! Today, I don't know what came over me! I just was so sad and afraid."

"I can help you – more than anyone in Gotham can, please trust me on this."

The asylum gates slowly opened, revealing the old white brick structure of the asylum, half obscured, half-glowing in the darkness and the rain.

"Do you trust me?"

She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.

"I love you, mom. I'll help you. I promise."

She covered her eyes as he drove the rest of the way up the lonely road to the asylum.

* * *

"You know I won't leave here, not while you're here, mom."

"No, Jonathan, you must go home. This is an awful place."

Crane gazed downward at the word _awful_.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, Jonathan. It's just not like back home, you know."

She nervously rubbed her arms and gazed around at the sterile, cold room.

"I'm sorry it has to look like this," said Crane. "It's always like this for everyone in this ward – to prevent them from hurting themselves."

"I promise you, Jonathan, I won't hurt myself. Not ever, _ever_ again. Please, let me go home! _Please!_"

Crane gazed around the room, perfect in its simplicity, built for one purpose: No patient could kill himself in this room. The sheets would break before it would bear anyone's weight. The mirror was cheap plastic; it couldn't shatter. The faucet and toilet were stainless steel – a definite improvement from its breakable counterpart porcelain and all the furniture was bolted down. Even the toothbrush was blunt and would be taken away from patients once it was used. No, it was next to impossible to kill yourself in this room unless you rammed yourself into the door until your crushed your skull in – no even that was impossible, the camera would catch you on tape and send the orderlies in before you even bruised your cranium.

_Yes, Jonathan Crane, you are selfish. She would be happier back home, but there are knives, unlocked windows, medicines and countless poisons, and you wouldn't be there to stop her. Then she'd be dead and you'd be alone, all alone, wouldn't you, Jonathan Crane? Here you can not only treat her but monitor her 24-7. You can help her better than any so-called quack in Gotham any could. Oh, mom, if you only knew how much I loved you by doing this! _

"Mom, I'm sorry, but you know that commissioner, he wanted to throw you in jail. This was the only way I could get you out of jail, at least temporarily."

"Oh, Jonathan, isn't there at least some other way?"

"Not that I know of. You'll stay at Arkham, say about a week. By that time he should be distracted by criminals, I imagine. Then you'll go home and forget about all of this."

"Really, Jonathan? Oh, thank you, thank you!"

She hugged him tightly. Crane had a sickening feeling in his stomach.

* * *

"And remember the time you pulled all the books down from the bookshelf? Oh, you made such a mess, Jonathan," his mother laughed.

"I was pretty young then. What was I, four?"

"I think four or five. You always were fascinated in learning."

Crane smiled. His notepad was empty and their therapy session went off on a tangent a long time ago, but he hadn't seen his mother this happy in a long time and he didn't want to ruin it by dredging up the recent painful memories of the attack. Even thinking about it himself brought to the forefront the sadistic viciousness of the Scarecrow and he didn't ever wish for his mother to see that side of him, not ever.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Crane.

Dr. Gooding entered.

"Ah, I thought I would find you in here – you always seem to be in here, nowadays Crane."

"_Dr._ Crane."

"A word with you, please," said Dr. Gooding.

"I'm sorry. I'll be right back," Crane said to his mother.

"Of, course," she said and turned to the window.

As they entered the hallway, Gooding pressed close to Crane. It was a trait Crane despised in the older man and Scarecrow always had a strong desire to rip Gooding's mustache out by the roots one by one with rusty tweezers.

"I don't know if you think it's amusing to flaunt your authority around here, Crane, but I am your superior and you never informed me of this new patient of yours."

"I had to admit her very quickly. You know suicidal patients are very prone to re-attempt –"

"Save me the spiel you dish out to your dim-witted police officers. I know this patient is very special to you. Let me see, she shares something – let me guess – a similar last name. I wonder why that is? You know Arkham has a strict policy against admitting family members of staff, Crane."

"Dr. Gooding, she was in need of help, surely an institution as fine as this one would not decline its services –"

"Also save me the sweet talk. I know what you're trying to do. You've been neglecting your other patients. I've checked on this one. She's your mother – even worse than just a mere relative. You know you are unable to reach any objectivity – you are too close – you know the patient too well, Crane."

"Dr. Gooding, you know I am more than capable from my previous dealings with patients here to –"

"No, you are far too close to her. If she is to be treated here, she needs fresh eyes and fresh ears, that is all. You want the best care, I'll give your mother the best care, Crane. I'll personally take her as my patient. What better care could you ask for for your mother? And that also will allow you the opportunity to get back to your job and your patients."

"I – I already have taken her as my patient – you – you can't do that!"

"I already have made the necessary paperwork, Crane, and as the superior of Arkham, I can do anything I wish, as you have already seen."

Gooding snapped his fingers and two orderlies ran to him.

"Anderson, Smith, have Mrs. Crane in a restraining chair. We will start the session immediately," said Gooding.

"A restraining chair! She is not violent," cried Crane.

"_Crane!_ If you want to lose your job here and have your precious mother scheduled for some immediate shock therapy, you will do _exactly as I say_. And right now I say you have an appointment with Patient Taylor. Now I suggest you _Go_."

The door swung open and Gooding stepped in.

"Good morning, Mrs. Crane. How are you doing today," said Gooding in a sweet, soothing voice.

"Where's my son? Why isn't he here," Crane heard his mother ask.

"Unfortunately he had another patient to attend to. But I will treat you today."

"No! I want my son! I want out of this chair! I want out of this place! Please let me out! Please! _Please!_"

The door slammed shut. Crane gazed at the closed door, his heart beating fast, the Scarecrow spouting a litany of profanities and ways to flay and torture Gooding. Oh, how he wanted to do it so badly, but then his mother would see.

_And she's here because of you. It's all your fault!_

_(No,_ hissed Scarecrow. _She's here because of the Snake. Let's have some fun with him first, yesss?_)

Crane slammed his fist hard into the wall and stalked down the white sterile corridor of the hallway.

_Room 304. 304. Where is that damn room!_

He rounded the corner and threw open the door that read 304. Mr. Taylor jumped at the sound of the swinging door and gazed up at Dr. Crane.

"Mr. Taylor, I believe it's time for our therapy session," whispered Crane.

"Oh, God, no," Mr. Taylor whimpered.

Mr. Taylor cringed, falling from his chair by the table and huddling against the cold, white wall.

A cruel, sadistic smile spread across Crane's lips.

The door of 304 slammed shut.

* * *

Crane gazed at a solitary hand banging against the unyielding wire-enforced glass of a metal door. It was a common occurrence at Arkham and normally it wouldn't faze Crane at all, but today each impact dug deeper into his heart. Slowly he moved away from the wall toward the raw hand beating against the glass and gently pressed his own hand against it. He closed his eyes.

"Jonathan, is that you," he heard the muffled voice inside. "Jonathan!"

"Hey, you," barked an orderly. "You're on strict orders from Dr. Gooding. No contact with the patient except during visiting hours. Understood?"

Dr. Crane turned and opened his eyes, gazing with cold loathing at the orderly. So now the illustrious and brilliant Dr. Crane was to take orders from this lowly and oafish orderly who couldn't tell psychosis from a celery.

"Very well, Mr. Smith. I will honor, Dr. Gooding's request," Crane said icily, before turning away.

Crane occupied himself with busy work, making the rounds, visiting patients, but all the while unable to concentrate until the hours ticked by until he was finally allowed to see her. As the minute hand hit 3 'o' clock – the beginning of visiting hours – the ever-punctual Dr. Crane filed away all the patient papers and returned to his mother's room. Thankfully Gooding and the orderlies were nowhere to be seen. As he opened the door, his heart sank as it always did when he saw her bound in that sickening restraint chair. It almost appeared she was asleep or drugged from the back, her head was drooping, her hair hanging about her face.

"Mom?"

Crane was almost hesitant to wake her, but at least he wanted to get her out of that accursed chair. As he turned the corner he heard her say:

"Damn you! Back for more so soon are you!"

He heard her straining against the leather restraints, her hands tensing into claws.

"If you were man enough to let me free I'd rip your face off!"

"Mom, it's me! Jonathan."

"J-Jonathan?"

Slowly he brushed the lank hair away from her eyes and he saw something strange in them. There was a wild and crazed look in those eyes he remembered always being so warm and gentle. She panted, straining against the chair.

"Oh, God Jonathan, he told me you were dead and that I'd be here forever! Forever! I – I wished I was dead, Jonathan. But first I wanted him dead! I wanted them all dead, Jonathan!"

"I know, mom."

_(We want them dead too_, whispered Scarecrow. _Maybe mom would like to see us have fun with them first? She might enjoy it? She might want to help? Watch them scream and writhe?)_

Crane winced and quickly unbuckled the clasps on the restraint chair. With a violence he had never seen as soon as the buckles were loosened slightly, she ripped free of the leather straps and fiercely hugged Jonathan tightly.

"I don't ever want to go back in that fiendish chair or stay in this hellish place! Give me a knife, Jonathan, a gun, anything! He won't stop, Jonathan! He won't stop giving me the drugs, the needles, he won't stop making me tell him about the monster who hurt me!"

"No, mom, if you hurt him you'll never get out of here, never." He pressed close to whisper into her ear, all too-conscious of the cameras. "Let me think of something, okay, mom. Promise me you won't hurt him as much as I wish you could. I will find a way out of here."

His mother slid out of his arms, an odd smile on her face.

"And then I can go home?"

"Yes, mom."

"And – and then we can be exactly as we were before?"

"Yes, exactly."

Crane smiled, but saw the strange, crazed look in her eyes he hadn't seen before.

_Oh, God, I have to get her out of here and soon._

Crane made several notes as he left his mother's room, then sighed, disheartened.

_(You are so pathetic, you know that_. _You have Fear, distilled Fear – make Gooding taste it. Make him Scream. He deserves it and your mother will be free and you will be able to help her.)_

_It's not ready yet_, thought Crane.

_(Always not ready! He tortures her and she grows worse every day all because you put her here! Now if you make him taste his own Fear you may save her yet! Think on it, Jonathan.)_

Crane thought back to the Fear Toxin. It had long been in its preliminary stages and had failed numerous trial runs on his patients. He had dabbled with it back in his early days in biochemistry in college, testing it in mice. It had been derived off of the compounds from the CliMax drug, which had quite a simple chemical structure. The problem with the CliMax drug was it was designed to stimulate pleasure receptors in the brain, not create fear, that only occurred in the case of a severe overdose and the results were sketchy at best. So Crane had been designing a drug of stronger, more intense potency every since, but had had no trial run yet.

_If I 'test' my Fear Toxin on Gooding I only have one shot at this. It will have to be maximum dosage and it must render him permanently insane. That way I will be in charge of Arkham and all its patients, and mom will finally be free of him._

_(Now you're finally thinking,_ whispered Scarecrow.)


	16. The Ladies' Man

Crane sat on an uncomfortable wooden bench crowded with a dozen other people. He watched in icy fascination at the man called Chuck "Snake" Machiano. As with his black-and-white mug shot, he was not an unattractive man. His chestnut brown hair had grown out, though he still wore it slicked back. He was impeccably dressed in a crisp black Armani suit and sleek gray tie that matched his eyes.

His lawyer leaned in and whispered something in his ear and he lightly laughed. Crane watched him in cold fascination, as a scientist might watch a slimy worm in a Petri dish. Crane already had filled a notepad with his own psychoanalytic observations. "Snake" Machiano was not your typical thug Crane soon surmised. As much as every fiber of Crane wanted to slowly flay and roast him for what he did to his mother, first he'd love to study his mind, dissect it, destroy it – then destroy his body – that _would_ be great fun.

Machiano was well-educated from a respected family in Gotham City, but found Falcone's lure of power and money far too enticing to resist. Machiano had two vices that earned him nicknames in Falcone's inner circles. "Snake" wasn't from his sly nature or charming good looks, although that could be attributed to him. One of his signature trademarks in style were his rattlesnake boots that he wouldn't abandon, regardless of latest Gotham City style and fashion. The second vice, well the second vice was far more sinister, which brought him to the court house today.

Judge Steven Harker hit the gavel and gazed sternly at Machiano, who suddenly abandoned his smirk and folded his hands at attention, like an obedient pupil.

"Charles Machiano, do you have any last words before I read the sentence?"

"No, your honor. I believe the evidence of my innocence speaks for itself. I did not rape Sarah Crane. I would never stoop to such baseness. That is not in my nature, your honor."

Although Crane's face was a statuesque mask, unreadable, his nails dug deep into the handle of his briefcase, wishing it was Machiano's throat.

"Very well then, Mr. Machiano. I will read the sentence."

The other nickname Machiano was given to him was by Falcone – "The Ladies' Man." It was a joke at first, but soon it was used quite gleefully in Falcone's inner circle. After a kill, Machiano often found the night wouldn't be complete without topping it off with a woman. Now Machiano could have many willing women with his good looks, money, power and prestige. No, Machiano, got the most thrill and excitement from unwilling women, which brought him to Crane's mother.

"I, Judge Steven Harker, find Charles Machiano not guilty of charges of assault and sexual assault on Sarah Ann Crane. There is sufficient question leveled by the defense that DNA evidence was contaminated by the prosecution as well as a valid argument that Sarah Crane is not of sound mind enough to give valid testimony on the night in question. Case dismissed."

The gavel fell like a thunder stroke.

_Yet another of Falcone's men bought and paid for_, Crane thought bitterly.

Crane's mother … she was not the first and she was far from the last as Crane soon learned the further he delved into Machiano's history. Machiano had a long line of victims across Gotham City, but because of Falcone's reign of terror amongst the judges, nobody dared touch Machiano, so the The Ladies' Man continued to have his way.

Crane watched as Machiano smiled, overjoyed, hugged his lawyers, shook hands with some of his colleagues, many of whom were Falcone's men.

"I knew you'd get off Chuck, just knew it," Crane overheard one of them say.

Crane sat immovable as people brushed and shoved around him, trying to get up and leave the courtroom. His face was a mask, his eyes ice, but inside a storm of hatred and loathing beyond human imagining was brewing. Crane left as the courtroom grew empty so as to not draw attention to himself and to maintain a safe distance from Machiano. He watched Machiano closely as he left the courtroom, flanked by his celebrating lawyers and colleagues.

Throughout the long day Crane maintained a safe distance. If there was one thing Crane was good at was not being noticed and not being seen as a threat by anyone. On his notepad he recorded Machiano's mannerisms, his speech patterns, the foods he ate, the places he frequented, what magazines and papers he read. It was imperative he learned everything about this man in gaining insight into the depths and inner workings of his mind. Then, as his notepad was filling up, he snapped it closed.

_It is enough. I think I will know where he will strike next_, Crane thought. _There is still enough time before tonight._

Crane turned his cool blue eyes down the street. He was just a few blocks from the Narrows.

* * *

It was painful to return to the darkened apartment, so lonely and empty, so un-homelike without his mother there. Honestly Crane didn't know why he was there. He was searching for something he needed for tonight, but didn't know what. Scarecrow had insisted vehemently that they return here, that it was imperative they return to this apartment before meeting with Machiano.

_(Believe me, it will be worth it_, whispered Scarecrow.

Now that Crane was there he believed he had made a terrible mistake. Painful memories flooded back on him and a wave of anger rushed so violently upon him he felt he was going to be sick.

_How could they do this to her! To me! They let him go! They let him go free! She's imprisoned and he's free! And she's being tortured, driven insane and she's innocent! Innocent!_

Crane threw a small table over by the sofa and it fell with a sickening smash on to the floor. The sound startled him from his rage, afraid he had broken something important his mother would miss once she returned.

Thankfully the small table looked structurally intact, just the contents were scattered everywhere. Hastily Crane began gathering the contents that spilled from the overturned drawers. There were the usual items: 10-year old bill stubs, stale candies, a dead moth, three unknown keys and four pens. Then Crane came across something that caught his interest: a man's watch. He turned it over in his hands a few times. It was stainless steel, the face plate was cracked, the hands permanently stopped at 8:47 p.m.

_That's odd … it couldn't be my father's could it?_

He put it back in the drawer, came across a few more useless items, then a picture frame face down. Slowly he turned it over. The frame was silver with some floral design around the edges and it was badly tarnished. The glass also was so thick with dust he had to brush it off several times before he could even make out the picture. At first glance Crane guessed it was a wedding picture of his grandparents or maybe great-grandparents, though he didn't know either of them, but then he studied the features more carefully.

No, undoubtedly to the left was his mother. The man to the right was what really fascinated him. To Crane it was almost like looking at himself in the past. The young man had soft blue eyes like himself and high cheekbones, though his nose was broader and his chin more prominent. He had inherited his mother's softer features in that respect, but his resemblance to his father was uncanny – and disheartening.

_I wonder where you are dad. I wonder why you left. Did you leave because of me?_

Crane gripped the picture tightly, fighting back the tears, then turned his attention back toward his mother. He couldn't ever recall his mother looking so young or so happy. He so wished she could be happy again, that she was back home, that he could have stopped everything before that terrible night of the attack.

_(You can't, but you can help her now_, whispered Scarecrow. _You can help her NOW.)_

Crane's eyes cooled to icy determination as he slipped the picture back into the drawer and closed it. He now knew what he was looking for in the apartment.

He went to the huge fabric bin in the corner of the room. As he slid off the heavy wooden lid, he saw the fabrics meticulously folded by his mother. Many of them were nice fabrics: cottons, satins, linens and corduroy. These he was not after. He was after the cloth located at the bottom of the huge bin, the heavier fabric that sometimes was used as scrap cloth or rags. He threw the piles of beautiful, luxurious fabric out, oblivious to all the work she had put into organizing the fabric bin.

His fingertips told him when he had found what he was looking for. The fabric felt the way he was feeling on the inside: rough, jagged and raw. He yanked out the fabric and saw what it was – a large piece of burlap canvas.

_It's perfect_, whispered Scarecrow.

This would not be a time for finesse or beauty. He felt like there was not a shred of beauty or love left inside him. He snapped open the old pink metal sewing case his mother used. Suddenly he smelled a soft lilac perfume, the hand lotion his mother used to wear. He paused for a moment, his eyes closed, picturing his mother's smile, then his jaw tensed and when his eyes opened again they were unyielding ice.

Crane selected not the finest needle, but a large awl, perfect for blunt sewing work through thick fabrics. Immediately his eyes turned to a spool of thick thread lying in the corner of the box next to the gleaming needle rack. It was a familiar shade, a dull beige he had remembered – the color of his old sweater that had been torn by that bully Stan so long ago, the sweater his mother had tried to mend before she fell asleep in exhaustion. It also was the same color of that plain burlap.

Crane grabbed the thread and a large pair of shears. He didn't cut, it more involved tearing. He enjoyed the ripping sound; it made him feel good hearing the sound of the thread coming undone, unraveling what was once cohesive and whole. He tore two ragged holes for the eyes and ripped a large gash for the mouth, which he promptly stitched up with a coarse black thread.

The face of Scarecrow gazed back at him from out of the canvas.

* * *

It had been a wonderful day for Snake Machiano. He had enjoyed adelicious meal of shrimp linguini with Falcone at their favorite restaurant La Viva! Falcone had congratulated Machiano on his victory in court, but not without admonishing him to be more careful with the ladies.

"Now don't get me wrong," said Falcone. "I have nothing against a little fun here and there, but be a bit discreet, eh? Don't get caught, eh, Chuck?"

"Don't you worry, Carmine. I will have new ways to shut them up after this, I think."

"Ah, that a boy," Falcone laughed.

Snake Machiano made sure he only had one glass of wine before getting his orders for the night. He wanted to be clear headed before he made the hit. If there was one thing Machiano prided himself in was making the hit efficiently and cleanly. He didn't botch a job _ever_, not like those gorilla thugs Falcone had a dime a dozen. No, Machiano had the hit down to an art form. He got it done right the first time, every time.

Machiano left the restaurant promptly at 9 p.m. He calibrated his Rolex, smoothed out his Armani suit, then drove his sleek red Ferrari to the west end of Gotham. Machiano didn't worry if he was traveling through upscale Gotham or in the worst side of the Narrows. No one dared touch Machiano or his car _ever_, because quite simply if you dared touch him or any of his possessions you ended up dead. It was that simple. Everyone knew who Snake Machiano was and who he was connected to.

Machiano rented the empty apartment that was across from his hit target, Falcone's latest enemy: Jeremy Reynolds – a lawyer who would not go on to his payroll. Well, if there was one thing Machiano had learned in his profession, what isn't settled with the buck is just as easily settled with the bullet. End of story. Case closed. We all go home. Everyone is happy – well, except the grieving family of course. Machiano slyly smiled.

The lights in the window across the opposite apartment flicked on. His target was moving into his sights.

_Ahh, very good. _

Machiano slipped from his silken inner jacket a .45 ACP caliber gun. He loved his gun, more than any woman. It was custom made to his exact specifications: sleek black stainless steel with a fully ingrained walnut handle, skeletonized adjustable trigger, extended magazine release with full-length recoil. Ah, it was a beaut.

Jeremy Reynolds entered his sights in the window. It was an absolutely perfect shot and he was going to take it. Machiano aimed and squeezed the trigger ever so gently, a soft caress he never bestowed upon any woman.

Reynolds jolted from the impact of the bullet and fell backward from his wife's embrace. His wife stood in shock for a moment, then screamed.

_All in a day's work_, Machiano thought smiling.

* * *

"Tonight is my lucky night and you're going to help me celebrate, my dear," whispered Machiano, crushing his lips against a young woman desperately trying to shoving him away.

"No! Please let me go! No!"

Crane watched with a mixture of interest and revulsion at Machiano as Crane stood in the shadows beneath Track 57. Machiano was disgustingly predictable in that sense. From studying his previous record, Crane was able to discover he enjoyed preying on women taking late night trains from work and he usually would prey upon the nearest track from whatever hit assignment he was on. It was just the convenience factor. Machiano was not a complicated man in that sense.

A light flashed above Crane and he looked up. The train was beginning to move out of the station. In a second shadow engulfed Crane again, then light as each car slowly began to move, obscuring and revealing the bright lights in the station above him.

"Hey you! Over there! cried Machiano, slipping out his prized gun from his jacket. "This is not a show! Get lost."

"Oh, God! Please help me! Please," pleaded the girl.

Desperately she tried to escape Machiano grasp, but he grabbed her blouse and tore it.

"He's not going to help you," Machiano spat. "No one helps anyone in this town! The sooner you learn that the better!"

He crushed his lips to hers and she whimpered pitifully. While Machiano's eyes were turned away from Crane, he advanced as the light flickered while the train left the station.

_Arrogance breeds vulnerability_, thought Crane.

"Let her go," said Crane in a firm, cold voice.

Machiano pulled his lips away from the girl and gazed at Crane, who was still obscured in shadow.

"Hey, buddy. If you want a girl so desperately get your own, or wait until I'm finished with her – I'll warm her up for ya," he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

"I'm not here for the girl," said Crane. "I'm here for you."

Crane stepped into the pale spotlight by the stairwell so Machiano could see him and Machiano reacted the way Crane expected he would – he began to laugh _hard_.

"Is this – is this some kind of _joke_?You come in here acting all the hero and just look at you! And to think – to think – I was afraid of you! What a joke," cried Machiano. "Just look at him, my sweet! Look at him!"

He grabbed the young woman by the face and shoved her forward. Crane could see in the light she had some cuts and bruises already on her tear-stained face. Some buttons were missing from the top of her torn blouse and she was visibly shaking.

"Please let me go," she cried. "Please."

"Not, until I first have my fun, dear. And believe me I have some big plans for tonight. Tonight is going to be a very special night for the both of us … But first pathetic loser here wants to watch, don't you? Because from the looks of you," said Machiano addressing Crane. "You can't get a woman; you get your kicks watching, don't you, eh? But you see I've learned a secret you pathetic sh-t! I don't _ask_ women, I just _take_ them!"

A creepy grin spread across Crane's lips.

"And that is where you are wrong," said Crane. "Because you can only take so much before someone eventually takes you."

The smug grin disappeared from Machiano in a heartbeat and he aimed his gun directly at Crane's head.

"What did you say to me you pathetic loser sh-t? What did you mean by that?"

The girl in that brief instant twisted from Machiano's grasp and tried to run for it.

"Hey, you're not going anywhere, missy! You're not going anywhere until you –"

While Machiano turned his attention on the fleeing girl, Crane swiftly raised his arm and shot a cloud of gas full into Machiano's face. Machiano had time enough to gaze in wide-eyed shock at the young man before collapsing to his knees, then falling face down on to the filthy, wet ground.

Crane stood over Machiano, gazing at him in amused curiosity. The woman stared, clutching at her torn blouse.

"Is he – is he dead?"

"Oh, no, where would be the fun in that," said Crane. "He will sleep for awhile."

"Thank you – thank you for saving me," cried the girl. "He – he was going to –"

The girl looked on the verge of crying and Crane turned his eyes away from his unconscious victim to the girl. For a moment his cold, predatory eyes softened and he had a desire to hold her and comfort her.

"You're a hero," she finally said.

Crane gazed at the gratitude in her eyes, then at his would-be prey, just waiting for him on the ground. He could turn him into the police, report the assault. A "hero" would do that, but what then? Machiano would go through the court system, be freed again by judges bought off by Falcone.

But in Crane's hands at last he would meet justice.

Crane turned to the girl, his eyes cold, his face masking his emotions within.

"No, I'm no hero," Crane said firmly.

He removed from his suit jacket a burlap mask and slowly slipped it over his head.

"I'm Scarecrow," he whispered.

The girl gazed at him in a mixture of horror and revulsion, and then ran away down the lonely and dark street. Scarecrow smiled within the mask, gazing at his delicious new prey through the ragged eyeholes with a new appreciation.

_Time to have a little fun, shall we? Best we get started. I'd hate for you to wake up and be disappointed._

Scarecrow carried off his prey into a dark alley until they were both swallowed up in shadow.


	17. The Spiral Web

Machiano's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry. He sucked in a breath, trying to clear his mind as he raised his head. His head and neck were aching quite a bit and he couldn't remember what had just happened.

_Must have been some night_, he thought groggily.

He tried to move his hand to reach for his gun; he always checked on his gun first thing in the morning, but then realized something strong and resilient was holding his wrists and ankles tightly. He also could feel he was sitting upright on a hard chair instead of lying on a bed. Machiano strained his eyes, willing them to see clearly through the fog of whatever drug he was on. Gradually they began to focus and saw he was in a dingy, run down room in some forgotten part of the city. Yellowed blinds covered the windows, a few cockroaches nibbled at some crumbs in a corner and a lamp with no shade sat in the corner on a cheap plastic table.

_A place this ugly has to be in the Narrows_, thought Machiano. _And someone like him probably was born here._

Machiano turned his cold gray eyes to Crane, who sat opposite him in front on a folding chair. Crane was gazing at him with those cold analytic eyes, a creepy tightly controlled grin upon his lips.

"I'm glad you had a good sleep, Mr. Machiano. I trust you find this setting acceptable for our first session?"

"You sick, twisted, little f-ck," cried Machiano, pulling against the leather restraints. "If you let me go right now, maybe I won't blow your head off!"

"Animosity, not the best way to start off a doctor-patient relationship, but regrettably it happens from time to time. I hope you will be able to work past it and learn to trust me. I assure you you will not regret it."

"Are you f-cking insane? I'm not your f-cking patient! Now get me out of this f-cking chair right NOW!"

Dr. Crane turned his eyes to his notepad and wrote something on it with his gold pen.

"Mr. Machiano, I always find when I first take on a new patient, it may be an awkward, even an aggressive situation. Some patients come to me against their will, but I assure you these patients soon learn to appreciate what I can do for them."

"_I am not your patient!_"

"Now in our first session, I do hope to learn a little bit more about you, Mr. Machiano. I have your file here."

Dr. Crane slipped out a folder from beneath his notepad and opened it up. There seemed to be at least 10 sheets of typed pages stuffed inside and although Machiano suspected it was all nonsense, he wondered if this lunatic truly had something he could use against him.

_Either way I will have to kill him_, Machiano thought.

"I always find it best when I start a new patient to ask him is there something he wishes to share with me," said Crane, keeping the pages balanced on his bony knees. "Is there anything you wish to share with me, Mr. Machiano?"

"F-ck you!"

Dr. Crane stopped looking amused; his eyes turned cold.

"Is there a reason, Mr. Machiano, that you first began preying on women three years ago, beginning with Jessica Tannen?"

Machiano spat in the direction of Crane.

"I will take that as a 'No.' How about Veronica Kestrel? From the looks of it that was assault and murder." Crane looked up, his eyes blue ice. "That was unusually brutal, even for you."

"I won't blow your head off once I'm out of here," spat Machiano. "I'll shoot you in the gut so you can slowly bleed to death for wasting my time!"

"And what makes you think you'll get out of here so quickly, Mr. Machiano?"

Up until that point Machiano thought he was in a fairly easy device to escape from. Quite simply he was in a wooden chair with leather straps that fastened around his wrists and ankles, finally locking in buckles. Machiano had seen many restraining devices in his day from his early days in "coercion" for Falcone. Machiano eventually decided his heart was more for killing, but he was confident that the device he was in right now he could break out of in five minutes or less.

"You think you can escape from that chair," said Crane coolly. "Go ahead and try it while I'll tell you a little bit more about it."

_This moron is giving me permission to escape? What a f-cking amateur, _thought Machiano._ Maybe I'll just shoot him in the head after all._

Crane got up from his own chair and began to walk around Machiano much like a salesman about to talk about a prized car on a show floor. Meanwhile Machiano started to yank at the restraints with his full strength without much progress. The chair never moved in all his exertions; it was bolted down to the floor.

"The chair you are sitting in is no ordinary chair, Mr. Machiano. For a man who only wants the best, I have given you the best. This is no standard issue restraint chair. This is the latest model, built of solid maple – the strongest wood for restraint chairs, with reinforced stainless steel double-lock buckles. The leather restraints also are made with exacting thickness, twice the thickness of regular restraint strap leather. Quite simply, Mr. Machiano, this chair was built for exceptionally violent patients. I guess that fits your description well."

"Listen to me you –"

"Do you wish to tell me anything more about yourself? Your fears, perhaps?"

Crane leaned close, a hungry gleam in his eyes. For a brief moment Machiano was afraid of the look – the look of a madman he almost thought – but then he spat full into Crane's glasses. He grimaced, slowly slipping the glasses off his nose and using the sleeve of his suit jacket to clean them.

"I hope you are enjoying this," said Machiano. "Because Falcone will be looking for me and then you'll be wishing you were dead you loser sh-t!"

He looked at Machiano, his gaze unyielding ice.

"What makes you so sure Falcone will be looking for you so quickly?"

"I finished my hit."

"And after all hits your rape a girl, is that not so, _Snake_?"

Machiano gazed at Crane. His tone suddenly changed; it was no longer cold and analytical. At the name "Snake," he slammed his file on the table by the lamp with such vigor it nearly startled the almost unshakable Machiano. The young man before him suddenly seemed angry, vengeful and _hungry_.

"Oh, no, Falcone will not be looking for you for awhile. You go off to 'celebrate,' don't you, _Snake_? You rape poor girls and leave them in the gutter and think it's fun, don't you?"

Machiano opened his mouth to spew some curse words, but Scarecrow crushed his mouth closed with his hand.

"Veronica Kestrel – the one you murdered," whispered Scarecrow harshly. "You had a lot of fun with her, eh? She was after one of your big court cases. You held her captive for a _week_ having fun with her before you killed her. Falcone didn't question your whereabouts then, did he?"

Scarecrow relished seeing some of the hope fade from Machiano's eyes. Slowly he took his hand away from the hitman's mouth and stepped back.

"I have you at least for a _week_," gloated Scarecrow. "Are you afraid now, Snake? Are you afraid of all the things I might do to you in that week?"

Machiano suddenly gazed up at Scarecrow, a defiant fire in his eyes.

"F-ck you! I'm afraid of no one."

"That's the wrong answer," whispered Scarecrow, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Because you _will_ fear me once I'm through."

"Fear you? Are you trying to make me laugh again," cried Machiano.

Machiano nervous laugh turned into a genuine laugh as Scarecrow slipped on his burlap mask.

"Oh, that's really funny! That's not scary at all," howled Machiano. "At this rate I'm _afraid_ I'll die of laughter!"

Scarecrow raised his arm and suddenly a white, choking gas shot from his coat sleeve. Machiano, completely unaware it was coming, took in a lungful of the deadly toxin. He gasped and choked, unable even to grasp at his throat while his hands and feet trembled in the leather restraints. Machiano felt his heart beating faster, his mind growing frantic, his senses overloading, searching for some nameless enemy. His eyes widened, searching and through the white fog a vague form emerged.

A hideous black claw shot through the mist and seized his arm. Red eyes glared at him from the mass of swarming maggots that crawled on its face.

"Do you fear me now," growled the monster.

Machiano screamed while the demon loomed close, savoring his fear.

* * *

_(Oh, he was a delicious one, more Fear than I could have imagined, sweeter than I have tasted in a long time_, Scarecrow whispered in Crane's mind.)

Crane had long gotten used to the running dialogue that was Scarecrow's. Most of the time it was an annoyance, usually petty wants, bullying and demands on Scarecrow's part, but at the moment he was completely sated, glutted on the fear of his recent victim. Crane himself had to admit the victim was especially delicious. Beyond the tough veneer, Machiano proved to fear much just in his first taste of the Fear Toxin and that was at the lowest dosage. What would happen to him when Crane continued to up the dosage? Crane wondered and anticipated it with much delight

So did Scarecrow.

_(When can I hear his screams again? He owes us his screams for all the pain he has inflicted on us and your mother!)_

_When he regains his strength_, thought Crane. _He is not ready yet, but when he is ready, he will make an apt patient and test subject, that is for sure._

_(Always concerned about research,_ screamed Scarecrow._ What about REVENGE!)_

Crane was busy jotting down notes; Scarecrow busy with a litany of curses when Machiano slightly moaned. Crane's cold blue eyes quickly shot up from the paper toward the restraint chair and slipped from his breast pocket a miniature flashlight.

_That a boy_, thought Crane. _He's even quick in the recovery too. Excellent! I couldn't ask for a better test subject indeed!_

Crane leaned close to Machiano, who still was half unconscious.

"Lift up your head, that's it," Crane ordered.

"Where – where am I," Machiano asked, the words slurring. "What happened? Was I in an – an accident? I feel terrible!"

"Just relax. I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you."

_Disorientation and temporary memory loss. Interesting side effects, but obviously no permanent damage to the brain and no impairment of judgement_, thought Crane. _If insanity is to be the goal of the Fear Toxin, this lower dosage is a failure._

Machiano still didn't have his eyes opened, at least not fully; he just was barely holding his head up.

"Now hold you head still, just going to check on pupil dilation and your reflexes," said Crane.

"Pupi- wha-?"

_Maybe the toxin did damage the brain to some degree. No matter_, thought Crane in delight.

Before Machiano knew what Crane was doing, he seized Machiano's left eyelids, pried them open and was shining a blinding light from his flashlight into his eye.

"What are you –?"

"Pupil dilation is returning to normal. You are coming out of the effects of the drug nicely, Mr. Machiano. I am quite impressed."

Machiano blinked, his groggy, stupid features slowly turning to realization and hatred.

"Wait, you're – you're that insane sh-t who – AHH!"

Crane hit Machiano's knee hard with a reflex tool to see what his response was, just to make sure he still had use of his extremities after the effect of the drug. His kick was a good indication not only everything was in good working order, he could feel pain very well. Crane smirked in great satisfaction.

"You sadistic bastard," screamed Machiano.

"Sadistic? Would you like a taste of some of my other toxins? I have many, I assure you."

Machiano's angry, red face suddenly blanched.

"You – you have more than one?"

"Several really," said Crane. "And you will have the great honor of trying them all if you continue acting in this antagonistic fashion."

Machiano's hands balled into fists, his gray eyes glaring piercingly in the sickening yellow light of the shadeless lamp.

"I can give you what you want – whatever you want," said Machiano. "Money, power, women, anything! You know I'm connected with Falcone. I can give it to you."

"That is not what I want, Mr. Machiano."

"Then what do you want!"

_(I want your Fear_, Scarecrow hissed in Crane's mind.)

"Mr. Machiano, you're my patient, so therefore I care about your well-being –"

"Then you'll get me out of this chair!"

"I can't do that. A patient as violent as you is a danger to himself and others. I cannot release you until I cure you."

Crane allowed his words to sink into Machiano's mind. He gazed at Crane as though he truly believed he was in the room with a madman and Crane to some degree relished it.

_(Yes, let him Fear us_, whispered Scarecrow._ Let him Fear all the things we may do to him – all the horrors he imagines we may inflict upon him.)_

"Cure? I don't need a _cure_ – especially not from the likes of someone as f-cking insane as you," spat Machiano.

"You may think that, but I believe your victims would strongly disagree with your opinion on that matter. And be that as it may, I am determined that before you leave you pose no threat to anyone, one way or another."

"So you're going to kill me, is that it," said Machiano, his eyes steely cold.

"I never said that and that would be my last intention."

"And what if I refuse? What if I fight you in my 'cure'?"

A sly, cold smile crept across Crane's lips.

"I would not suggest that, Mr. Machiano. You have seen what my toxin can do – what it does to the mind. I must warn you that was the lowest dose. I would hate for your mind to be damaged. But if that is your choice –"

"No! Please, I – I'll cooperate in this 'cure' of yours. Just no more of this poison of yours."

"That will depend entirely on you," said Crane. "If you make any attempt at resistance, escape or violence, you know what I will resort to. But unlike you, Mr. Machiano, I am not entirely heartless, I do offer some warning."

Crane slipped from his jacket the burlap mask and slowly unfolded it. Machiano vaguely remembered it and his laughter before the nightmare unfolded.

"If I am growing displeased with your behavior, I will remove this mask. As long as it remains out, Mr. Machiano, I would recommend that you prove yourself to be an exemplary patient … Once I put on this mask, Mr. Machiano, anything can happen, _anything_. All your worst fears, nameless terrors will be realized in an instant with one false step on your part. The toxin is near."

Machiano broke into a cold sweat. He didn't move a muscle in the restraint chair, though he was bound fast.

_Ah, good_, thought Crane. _My little Pavlov Fear dog is buying it completely. As soon as he sees the Mask he will associate it with Fear and the terror of the toxin. The Mask will be a perfect intimidation tool. This will work out perfectly._

Crane smiled as he slipped the mask back into his jacket and folded his hands together. He was so eager to start on his little lab rat, picking apart his brain piece by piece until it completely lay bare before him.

"Now do you have any questions for me, Mr. Machiano?"

"Yes. When can I go to the bathroom?"

_Damn! First question from the test subject has to be on such base matters as relieving himself! No matter._

"Very well, this will be a good demonstration on the new rule I have just set," said Crane icily.

Crane plucked from his jacket the mask and removing his glasses, slipped it over his head. Almost instantly Scarecrow emerged from the shadows of his mind, ever growing in his consciousness until he was peering from his startling blue eyes from the ragged holes of the mask at his bound prey.

"Your worst fears will be realized under me if you try anything," Scarecrow hissed.

Scarecrow snapped up a cold syringe from the table and roughly jabbed it into Machiano's arm, injecting the clear fluid into him.

"What! What are you doing," cried Machiano indignantly.

"Just a precaution," whispered Scarecrow. "Now go and return quickly. I want to play – and soon."

Scarecrow yanked the buckles loose and aimed his arm in Machiano's face as he slowly moved out of the restraint chair. Machiano turned away from him, tentatively walking to the washroom and closing the door. When the washroom door opened again, Scarecrow gazed at Machiano, a hungry, predatory gleam in his icy blue eyes.

"Now back in the chair," Scarecrow hissed. "We shall continue your 'cure,' shall we, as the good doctor said?"

Machiano stopped, his eyes briefly locking with Scarecrow's before making a mad dash for the door.

"So predictable," Scarecrow growled.

Scarecrow didn't chase Machiano or spray the Fear Toxin at his fleeing victim. At the three minute mark from the time he was injected with the serum, Machiano's eyes rolled back into his head just as his fingers were about to touch the door knob.

Machiano vaguely felt pain as he fell roughly to the floor. He heard the harsh laughter of Scarecrow and then a burning sensation in his lungs. His heart raced and his eyes fluttered opened to see his vision distorted. The walls seemed to breathe in and out, and as the hideous monster once again loomed close, the disgusting maggots that crawled all over his face dropped upon him and crawled on his skin.

_What is rotten inside stays rotten._

Machiano's eyes shot open. He desperately tried brushing away the writhing maggots, which seemed intent on crawling under his clothes, burrowing into his skin.

_They always seek what is rotten on the inside._

The filthy maggots grew sharp teeth and latched fast to his skin, and slid like so many tunneling worms inside him. Machiano screamed, clawing the filthy, dusty floor. The pain was terrible, feeling their tiny teeth tearing through muscle, burrowing deep, deep through every nerve and tissue.

"Make them stop! Please make them stop," Machiano begged the gloating monster.

_They go to the rotten core._

Machiano fell on his back, feverish, staring glaze-eyed at the ceiling. The monster seemed to be gone and he no longer could feel the pain and the presence of the worming maggots.

_Thank God they're gone, _thought Machiano._ Thank God._

"_Please! For the love of God, let me go!"_

Suddenly Machiano saw the face of Veronica Kestrel. Her face was wet with tears mingled with her blood, the blood after he beat her. She was pleading for him to finally release her after they were nearing the end of her week in hell … his week of pleasure. Machiano smiled at the memory.

"_No, my dear, you might tell the police all the wonderful things I did to you. I can't have you doing that, now can I," Machiano said._

He shot her while she lay bound in the bed, once, twice, three times. A pool of blood soaked the white sheets red.

_Too bad, she was a fun one_, Machiano thought.

Suddenly the vision faded and he was back in the filthy room and the monster was looming over him.

"What did you see, tell me," demanded the monster, grabbing Machiano by the neck, his claws fiercely digging into his flesh.

"Ver- Veronica," Machiano gasped, before he realized what he was saying.

"Good," hissed the monster. "Now reveal your fears to me – your darkest fears."

Machiano stared in blank horror at the monster covered in those hideous carnivorous maggots, looming so close to his face.

_Oh, God, please don't let them eat my face_, Machiano thought.

"What did you see," demanded the monster.

"Death – blood. I – I killed."

"With these hands – yes?"

The monster grabbed Machiano's hands fiercely with its black claws and pried them open. To Machiano's horror he saw a pool of blood steadily forming in them and spreading, moving up his arm, soaking his clothing wet with its putrid stickiness.

"You killed that innocent woman. You have hurt so many," growled the monster.

"She – she would have told the police – I had to."

"LIAR! If you do not tell me the truth, I will rip it from you," the monster screamed. "Now I wonder which method would work best."

The monster was just inches from him and the maggots continued to drop on his clothing wet with blood, which itched and burned against his skin like fire. In his peripheral vision he could see ghostly faces gazing at him, past victims, some dead, some of them women he had raped, gazing at him with their eyes full of hatred. Machiano dared look at them for an instant and saw they were steadily creeping toward him, step by step, their hands gripping some ghastly instrument of torture. Veronica in particular was in the forefront, a cruel smile on her lips, a butcher's hook gripped firmly in her hand.

"No! No, please make them stop," Machiano begged. "I – I'll do anything you want."

"We're already beyond that point," hissed the monster. "Now it's your screams I want and you owe me your pain!"

"No! No! Please no! Mercy!"

At the word "mercy" the monster laughed such a cruel and amused laugh it made Machiano shudder in that twisting, unraveling nightmare.

"Your deepest fear must be in here somewhere, let's open up your mind at find out," the monster laughed.

"_No!_"

The monster grabbed hold of Machiano's head and dug into his skull, cracking it viciously open like a walnut. Machiano screamed, streams of blood dripping into his line of vision as he felt the monster tear into his naked mind.

"That's interesting, Mr. Machiano. Why don't you tell me a little bit more about your childhood."

Machiano gasped, all his muscles twitching, his skin damp and pale. Wildly he looked around room, which was still depressing even in the early morning sunlight. The lunatic who sat opposite him was busy writing notes. Crane no longer wore the burlap mask and wasn't speaking in that wild, demanding voice he adopted when his madness took over. Machiano looked down and saw he was bound once again in the restraint chair. He also saw whatever drug or poison that madman had given him must have made him hallucinate; he was not covered in blood. He felt a warm wetness on his cheeks.

_Oh, God, have I been crying and that pathetic, sadistic sh-t saw me. Oh, he must have **loved** that!_

"How – how long was I out," Machiano gasped.

Crane looked up from his notes.

"You were unconscious for scarcely an hour, but you have been talking with me for three hours. Our therapy session has been a great success. This new medication I have put you on seems to have benefited you considerably."

_Medication! What drugs did you give me!_

"What did I tell you," Machiano asked.

"I've been getting some of the basics I ask all my new patients," said Crane. "Mostly I've been gathering some of your background and family history. Yours is quite fascinating and I must say your pursuit in crime is unusual given your loving family life and the high socio-economic income of your parents."

"I told you that? Well, I was just bullsh-tting you, affects of the drug, y'know."

"Actually, you were quite truthful under the medication … What you just told me **is** a lie," Crane said coldly. "You see, Mr. Machiano, I do some background research on all my patients before I take them on. Maybe it's time to give you your next dosage if this is how you will respond to my questions."

_Machiano, you idiot! He's a sly one and if you don't play it right you'll end up dead! Give him some truth just to tie him over, buy you some time, make him let down his guard enough so you can escape!_

"No. I'll tell you anything you want," Machiano said. "After all, you are my doctor."

"Good, I'm glad you realize I'm just trying to help you," Crane said, with a slight smile.

Machiano ground his teeth, every fiber of his being revolted at submitting to this lunatic he easily could crush beneath his boot if he was freed of the restraint chair. A hundred different ways flashed through his mind, many different slow, torturous methods of death he could inflict on this self-pretentious weakling who hid behind that poison and the strength of this infernal chair.

_He's a coward. Nothing but a f-cking coward_, Machiano thought.

"So tell me, Mr. Machiano, before these attacks began you were in normal romantic and sexual relationships, isn't that correct?"

"Weren't we talking about my childhood," Machiano grumbled.

"Just as background; I have enough of that," Crane said. "Now I'm moving on to your adult psyche. Jennifer Falcone, is she a relation to Carmine Falcone by any chance?"

"Yeah, she's his niece."

"And yet you dated her – even were in a lengthy relationship with her." Crane gazed at him with great interest. "Tell me a bit more about her."

"There is nothing to tell. We hit it off. End of story."

"Oh, I think there is more to it than that."

Crane's piercing blue eyes burrowed into him, but Machiano turned his gaze away, stubbornly grinding his fingernails into the wooden armrests of the chair.

"Well, if you don't want to talk . . . Would you like to see my mask?"

"_No!_"

Machiano was startled by the suddenness even of his own response. He hated how desperate he sounded.

"I mean – I'll talk," Machiano said grudgingly. "Jennifer Falcone, yeah, we dated. Originally I hated it."

"Hated it? And why is that?"

"Jennifer Falcone recently broke up and Carmine, he wanted her to attend his latest function with the rich and powerful. None of his common thugs would do so – so he ordered me to keep her entertained."

_Dammit! Are you an idiot! Why are you telling him everything? Just give him a crumb of truth, not the whole damn cake! SHUT UP!_

Crane seemed even more fascinated with this new piece of information. He made a special note of it on his pad with his gold pen, then gazed at him, his face a mask, unreadable and unsettling.

"Tell me, Mr. Machiano, how did this initial 'arrangement' make you feel?"

"I don't know. I didn't feel anything. I had a job to do."

"No, you're not being truthful again. How did she treat you? Was she happy with what her uncle did, arranging this date?"

"She was f-cking pissed."

"And I'm sure she took that aggression out on you."

Machiano was quiet a moment, not know what to say or even what this lunatic was expecting.

"She was angry at first, but she warmed up to me, like all the ladies do," Machiano finally said slyly.

"She may have 'warmed to you,' as you say," said Crane. "But she didn't remain that way, did she, Mr. Machiano? She eventually left you for another man."

Machiano bit down on his tongue to keep from hissing.

"Tell me then, Mr. Machiano, what happened next? As niece of Falcone you couldn't beat her or harm her in any way when your attempts at getting her back proved futile."

_SHUT UP YOU PATHETIC LITTLE SH-T!_

Machiano dug his nails deep into the wood, scratching, scratching, wishing it was that maniac's throat he was tearing to bloody shreds.

"Soon after she broke up with you," continued Crane. "Records show your first attack on a woman occurred. Her looks are surprisingly like Jennifer Falcone. Do you wish to comment on this?"

"Since when did this 'therapy session' turn into an interrogation, doc," Machiano spat.

Crane pursed his lips and slipped his hand into his suit jacket. For a tense moment Machiano thought he would remove the mask to warn him, but obviously Crane thought of taking a different approach. He didn't remove the mask, but instead put away the pen and notepad.

"Therapy session is at an end. Clearly I have exhausted you and doctor as well as patient can benefit from a break here and there. Could I interest you in a refreshment?"

Machiano perked up at this. Maybe he would temporarily release his hands from the restraint chair just to eat and then would be an opportunity. Quickly he nodded at the doctor and Crane faintly smiled as he left and returned with a bottle of water, a carton of milk, a bowl, spoon and a box of Cheerios on a tray.

"I hope you like cereal for breakfast. Unfortunately this apartment is not as well stocked as I would like," Crane said.

As he shook the cereal into the bowl and poured the milk, Machiano began to eagerly twist at the wrist restraints. When the tension and silence between them became too much Machiano finally asked:

"Well?"

Crane looked up with those icy blue eyes.

"'Well' what, Mr. Machiano?"

"Aren't you going to undo these damn things so I can eat!"

"Oh, no, Mr. Machiano. That is still too dangerous. We shall do this the Arkham way."

Machiano stopped his struggling at the name "Arkham." Where had he heard that name before? He had heard it recently, but couldn't place where.

"Now, Mr. Machiano, open wide."

Suddenly his attention returned to the lunatic sitting opposite him. That cold, emotionless creature was holding a spoon of dripping cereal up to him like mother trying to feed a toddler.

"You've got to be sh-tting me," Machiano cried. "Let me feed myself!"

"I can't release you from the chair. You are still far too dangerous. However, I am not so cruel to let a patient of mine go thirsty and hungry – unless you choose to do so out of pride."

Machiano gazed at the dripping spoon of cereal. Suddenly he felt very dizzy with hunger.

_I swear I'm going to kill the bastard in the worst way possible!_

Machiano closed his eyes and felt the cool spoon and mushy cereal enter his mouth.

* * *

Machiano felt like he was slowly being driven mad with the endless tedium, the relentless "therapy sessions," and the long, torturous hours of captivity in the chair that felt worse than any prison imaginable. The wood began to bite into his back and buttocks and his muscles grew sore and began to scream from never being allowed to move and stretch. Many times Machiano fought himself from begging and screaming with that sadistic lunatic to just let him out, however briefly, to at least let him stretch his legs. Often times, when his torturer was busy with other tasks and wasn't looking at him with those piercing cold eyes, he'd bang his head against the back of the chair in frustration and anger. He could feel the ends of the arm rests getting rough and raw from his persistent scratching; it was his only outlet from his constant rage against this madman.

At first his thoughts were just a litany of profanity interspersed with bloody visions of murder toward his captor. But as the daylight faded and the restraint chair held fast to his persistent struggling, Machiano knew he had to be much more clever if he was to get out of this place alive, sane … and his captor dead. Machiano always had prided himself on being the predator, slowly stalking, cornering and taking down his prey. Now, as much as he hated to admit, he was the prey and this lunatic reminded him of the spiral web in the garden he remembered as a child.

A hornet once was caught in a web and the spider would every now and then would creep close, just to make it thrash, then back away. It did this to tire out the hornet and each time the spider crept closer and closer to its prey. This lunatic was doing the same, creeping deeper and deeper into his mind, trying to drive him insane, then eventually kill him.

_You'll just have to be smarter than him. Quit lashing out with your stinger. Save your strength. You know he lets you out only with that damn shot. You're going to have to time it. See how long you have._

As soon as Machiano felt the jab of the needle and the cool injection of the fluid enter his veins, he began to count from the moment the restraint straps fell loose to the moment he came from the washroom and obediently returned to the chair. There was no escape attempt this time. He was purely timing how long he had before the shot made him dizzy and started to make him black out. His vision began to fade at 3 minutes and 24 seconds and at that point – once Crane had the restraints securely fastened again – he injected a second drug into him and his mind cleared well enough and they continue his "therapy."

_So I have 3 minutes at least to try and inject myself with the antidote – or kill that monster_, thought Machiano.

Machiano far preferred the latter as he gazed at him, meticulously writing down notes, asking in great detail his sexual history.

_Yes, the bastard must die before I leave here._

Machiano gazed at the filthy surroundings, the fly buzzing around the bare bulb of the lamp, the cockroaches every now and then scuttling toward a Cheerio that had fallen on the floor.

"How did you mother feel about you turning to a life of crime, Mr. Machiano?"

"I don't know … How do you think she felt?"

"You are to answer the questions, not me," said Crane, his eyes gazing at him hungrily.

_If I'm to answer anymore questions I'm going to scream!_

"She never knew, okay? She never knew I worked for the seedy underworld of Falcone. Is that the answer you want?"

"That is sufficient."

"Good! Because I'm sick of this! I'm sick of this place! I'm sick of you!"

"I'm going to give you a mild sedative," Crane said.

_SH-T NO!_

"Wait! I just need sleep! I've been doing this for eight hours straight. Eight hours! Don't you get tired?"

Crane gave him a blank stare, his lips pursed.

"Not often," he finally said.

"Well, I'm tired," Machiano grumbled.

"Still a mild sedative will do you good," said Crane. "You suddenly seem quite agitated. I can't have a patient of mine become agitated – not good for therapy."

"Ah! Wait!"

Crane stopped, the hypodermic needle poised above Machiano's exposed arm, which recently had become quite bruised from all the injections. As he stared at Machiano, a slow grin spread across his lips.

"Is there something else you wish to tell me before this session is at an end," Crane asked.

"I – um – yes. I'd like to continue one more thing about how my mom felt about me going into – into crime."

Machiano desperately stared into Crane's eyes, praying he was buying it.

"But first, could I have a little break?"

"Washroom I'm assuming," Crane said.

"Yes, I want to be comfortable. I want to tell you everything."

"You're surprisingly talkative all of a sudden."

"I just – I just want to talk to you about this. Something just came into my mind and it's bothering me. I could never tell her about it. I probably never will. As my doctor, you must understand."

"Yes, I think I do," he said.

Crane withdrew the hypodermic needle and slipped from his jacket pocket a much smaller, more slender hypodermic and plunged it into Machiano's arm. Machiano watched as the clear fluid disappeared and he felt it enter his vein. He looked up at Crane who still was intent on removing the needle and sterilizing the area.

_Three minutes._

Crane removed from his jacket the burlap mask and slipped it over his head.

"Remember, _anything_ can happen while I wear this!"

Roughly he removed the restraint the straps and Machiano felt his heart pounding wildly. He was free, completely free for the moment. Machiano's eyes turned cold and hard as stone.

_Now it's time for you to DIE!_

In an instant he lunged at Crane and ripped off the mask.

"I want to see your face as you die you bastard," Machiano spat, clenching fiercely at his throat.

Both his hands dug deep into Crane's throat. As a killer, he could have easily snapped his neck and be done with it, make it clean and quick, but he wanted it to be slow and to let him feel the pain, feel the oxygen leaving his brain, to know he was dying and who his killer would be. Crane's face turned red as blood congested, his piercing blue eyes began to fade. His look wasn't of fear; it was _hatred._

Odd thoughts swirled through Machiano's mind, thoughts that usually don't bother him when he was making a kill.

_Why isn't he afraid of me? I'm killing him, aren't I? And why isn't he defending himself?_

Crane's hands weren't by his throat as he was pressing down choking and Crane frantically was gasping for breath. His hands were searching for something on the floor.

_He truly is mad. An object on the floor is worth more than his life! Mad … Arkham … Arkham Asylum._

Suddenly the courtroom scene flashed back in Machiano's mind:

"_Sarah Anne Crane has been confined to Arkham Asylum due to psychological and emotional instability following her recent attack by the accused."_

"_Her initial doctor, Dr. Jonathan Crane, admitted her."_

"_Any relation to Sarah Crane?"_

"_Yes, Dr. Crane is her son."_

"You're Dr. Crane," Machiano hissed.

Suddenly Machiano felt a sharp painful jab of a hypodermic needle stabbing into his thigh. He screamed, releasing the chokehold on Crane. Crane gasped deeply for breath, then picked up the mask off the floor and slipped it back on.

"Yes, I am Dr. Crane. Sarah Crane was my mother – the one you raped, beat and left in the gutter like so many others. And now I am going to cure you once and for all!"

He raised his arm, about ready to release the deadly toxin for the last time on Machiano, but Machiano tackled him hard to the floor, smashing into the table and scattering Crane's meticulous notes everywhere. The sedation hypodermic spun on the filthy ground and Machiano grasped for it frantically, wrapping his fingers around it and turned toward the stunned Crane.

"Sedation? I'll give you sedation! Sedation right through your heart!"

As Machiano whirled around, ready to plunge the glistening needle into Crane, a white puff of toxin shot full into his face. The toxin burned his nostrils and he could feel it choking his throat, his lungs.

"That's right, breathe deep, that's it. Good," whispered Scarecrow. "Soon you'll be mine. All mine."

Machiano slowly opened his eyes from the blinding powder and saw instead of the crooked stitched mouth, vicious slavering teeth had grown and instead of the piercing blue eyes of Crane, burning demonic eyes glared back it him.

_No! It's not real. Not real! Kill him! Kill him before it's too late!_

Machiano moved toward the monster, wielding a pathetic little hypodermic that somehow was supposed to slay it. With its black claw, it grabbed his hand and as soon as it touched Machiano, it burned his flesh and continued to burn until all his flesh melted away until there was nothing but bone. He shrieked. The hypodermic dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

"Now let's continue where we started, shall we?"

The monster cracked open Machiano's skull, tearing it until the brain was completely exposed to him. Machiano screamed and whimpered from the pain, but he could do nothing, nothing while the room spun and the walls twisted and the cockroaches came to munch at the flesh that continued to slide off his bones.

The monster slid his claw into his brain and Machiano felt the monster ooze into every crevice of his brain, invading, contaminating every portion of it.

"No! No," Machiano screamed, writhing on the floor.

_Scarecrow is in your brain now. Scarecrow will **always **be in your mind!_


	18. The Hidden Enemy

Crane watched Machiano on the floor, his breath coming in short gasps, his muscles still twitching after all the writhing he had done for the last several hours.

_I'm amazed even he could keep it up for that long_, Crane thought in curiosity. _His horrors must have been intense indeed._

Now Crane was most fascinated in the eyes. Machiano would not meet his gaze, shrinking from his stare as though unnamed terrors lurked in his pale blue eyes.

_(Good! Let him fear us! Let us savor that Fear,_ whispered Scarecrow.)

_We were foolish to let our guard down, especially with one so dangerous as him_, Crane thought. _I should have known better. I have dealt with his kind before._

_(Let's hear his screams again! His terror! His terror is so sweet,_ hissed Scarecrow.)

Crane knelt down on the filthy floor and looked at Machiano. Quickly Machiano averted his eyes from the doctor, trembling to look at him. As Crane felt Machiano's pale skin, he realized it was covered in damp, cold sweat and he was shivering.

"Don't – don't touch me," Machiano gasped. "Don't – don't touch!"

"I find it amusing you don't wish me to touch you. How many times did your victims beg you not to touch them?"

"Please don't! It – it hurts – the claws."

_Madness, the beginnings of madness induced by the toxin. I think that last toxin worked out quite well._

Ignoring Machiano's pleas, Crane uncurled Machiano out of his fetal position and looked at his face, though his eyes remained clenched shut in fear.

"Scarecrow! Bugs with teeth," Machiano cried. "My skull won't close! My brains will fall out! Veronica with a hook waiting! Please stop! Make it stop!"

_Fascinating! His madness includes not just the object of his induced psychotic delusion – Scarecrow – but a past victim – Veronica Kestrel – who presumably is tormenting him in his mind. I must document this._

Crane loomed close to his victim, gripping his arms tightly.

"Oh, the madness won't stop," Crane whispered. "It's just beginning for you, Mr. Machiano. You see, I've cured you! This is your cure! You'll hurt no one else now! No one! The world is safe and I've saved it! I've saved everyone from you! Open your eyes! OPEN THEM!"

For a brief moment Machiano was gazing at him, staring in horror not at Crane, but Scarecrow looming close to his face, but then the light from his eyes faded and he was lost to the horrors and delusions of his own mind.

"Scarecrow," he gasped, faintly tossing his head from side to side. "_Scarecrow_."

* * *

Crane drove in the plush Italian leather seat, his hands swathed in gloves while his patient was firmly buckled into the passenger seat. Machiano was not trying to escape while Crane drove Machiano's own red Ferrari, though just a day ago he would have killed Crane if he even so much as tried to touch his precious car. Crane rounded the corner and stopped at Birmingham Street, just a few blocks away from Falcone's familiar haunts. Crane scanned the intersection carefully and saw that the area was deserted. Quickly and quietly he parked the car along he curb and slipped Machiano out of the passenger seat. He was like a limp rag doll in his arms, a blank stare in his vacant gray eyes. 

"Scarecrow," he gasped.

_Yes, Scarecrow. You are mine now_, gloated Scarecrow._ You will never be free of me. Never!_

But at this point Crane was more interested in covering his tracks. Although Machiano was so much dead weight in his arms and Crane was not an athletic man, he managed to carry him a few feet away from the car and laid him down to make it appear he collapsed. Crane slipped out a sedation needle and gave Machiano a quick injection. In 10 seconds his eyelids drooped and the persistent muttering of "Scarecrow" faded from his lips.

_Now one final touch._

Crane slipped from his own suit jacket the deadly sniper gun Machiano prized so much.

_You won't be needing this anymore. You won't kill again, but Falcone will be looking for this. It will be suspicious if they find you and you don't have it._

He placed the gun back in Machiano's jacket and gazed long at him sleeping on the cold, wet ground. It was odd, but he was hesitant to leave him, hesitant to give up his patient and the "therapy."

_No, Falcone's men will be around soon and I mustn't be seen here. Now I leave you in the gutter, like you left so many others. Goodbye, Snake._

Crane walked away, leaving Machiano and the car in that lonely, dark street. He wasn't worried about himself or his way home. He knew these streets so well; it wasn't far from the place he first was forced to accept the drug CliMax in that dark alley long ago, a drug Falcone himself had forced on children in the Narrows, the same drug he had perfected into a toxin, turning Machiano, the deadliest hit man of Falcone, into a vegetable.

* * *

Arkham Asylum was quiet at this time of night. Crane enjoyed coming here the most in this early morning hour, when most of the patients were either asleep or so heavily sedated they had no choice but to sleep in their beds under the ever-watchful eye of the camera. He walked silently down the sterile, white halls, beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, past the absurdly cheery sign that said "Welcome to Arkham Asylum! All Guests Must Sign In." If Crane had his way he would rip the sign down each time he brushed past it. 

"Hello, Dr. Crane," murmured Nurse Pam Sweeney. "I'm surprised to see you here at this hour."

Crane stood at the nurses' station and gazed briefly at the clock: 1:36 a.m.

"I'm just coming to check up on some paperwork I failed to finish earlier," Crane said.

The nurse gazed at him earnestly.

"There's no need to lie to me, doctor. She's down the hall. I won't tell Gooding."

"Thank you, Pam."

Crane slipped her a few bills, despite her protests, and walked down the hallway, absently gazing at the darkened windows, flashing at him like watchful eyes. Up ahead he could see a faint light glowing from one of the windows; it always seemed to glow even in the dead of night at the asylum; she had grown afraid of the dark now, yet another fear she had accumulated since the attack. Crane swiped his ID card into the door and it clicked open.

Even in the dim light he could see she wasn't sleeping, her eyes gazing wide and blank at the ceiling and she lay on her back upon the stiff, simple bed.

"Mom, I'm back," he whispered.

"Jonathan, you've been gone long – so long," she whispered. "I thought you had abandoned me here – left me for good."

"Never, mom. I never will. You will be free, mom, free as I have promised."

Crane sat down in the simple plastic chair by her bedside. She didn't turn toward him, but continued to stare up at the ceiling.

"Sometimes I think if I stare long and hard enough, I can see the sky, that the ceiling will crumble away, that I will see the clouds and birds again," she whispered.

"And you will, mom. You will." Crane took her hand in his. "That man who hurt you – he will hurt you no more."

She turned her eyes toward him; her cracked lips parted in bewilderment.

"He will hurt no one ever again," said Crane, a slow smile spreading across his lips.

"Jonathan – he's dead?"

"No, much better! Cured! I cured him! And I can do more, much more – now that I know what will cure the criminal mind."

"Jonathan! How amazing! I'm proud – so proud of you!"

She turned, to reach toward him, to give him a weak embrace, then he saw the scratch marks upon her left cheek. The smile quickly faded from his lips.

"Mom, did you do that to yourself?"

"No! I didn't! _They_ did!"

"And who is 'they,' mom?"

"The others, Jonathan. Don't you see them? They're here, in this room, right now!"

She slid up from reclining on her bed and gazed wide eyed around the room, staring at phantoms Crane could not see.

"They are friendly sometimes, whispering, keeping me company, telling me you're all right. But some are mean, Jonathan! Some of them whisper awful things! Some tell me you are cruel and evil! Some say I will be here forever, that I will melt into the bricks and mortar like they have, becoming one with this place. I don't want that, Jonathan! I don't want that at all!"

"And the scratching. When, do you scratch yourself?"

"I don't! Didn't I tell you! They do! THEY DO! They claw at me sometimes when I don't listen, when I don't believe them. They've been here for so long, Jonathan. They say I will be too – and that when I die, I won't leave, but stay here, peering at the mad ones with eyes from the walls!"

"Mom, please stop!"

"And the monster, Jonathan, the monster, he won't stop, coming, poking with needles, asking, prying, binding me to the chair."

"Soon he will be gone, I promise you."

"Do you, Jonathan. Do you? How? Tell me."

Crane's heart sank as he was gazing at the mirror of madness in his mother's eyes, a wild, frantic look in eyes once so warm and comforting. He kept looking back at the claw marks, so red and raw upon her flesh. Her hands reached up and gently grasped both sides of his head, her thumbs upon his temples.

"They say, the others say, a monster walks the halls, seeking fear, feeding on fear."

"Gooding, you mean Gooding," Crane said.

She faintly shook her head and continued to look closely into his eyes, studying them.

"You're eyes are different, strange, so strange, so cold. Does a monster dwell in them, Jonathan?"

"Mom, that's absurd. You've been talking crazy all night, but that truly is the most insane thing you have said to me."

Crane slipped out of her grasp and stood up from the chair.

"Clearly you have problems sleeping, I can prescribe something for you, if you'd like."

His mother's face changed in an instant, from being curious and concerned for her son to melting into anguish.

"Oh! Don't you play the doctor with me too, Jonathan! I'm your _mother_!"

"You just seem agitated and lack of sleep clearly –"

"No! I don't need anymore shots or pills or therapy! I'm just glad you're back, Jonathan! I'm so glad they were wrong about you! I don't believe them! Really, I don't!"

She threw her arms around him and hugged him firmly, her wild, tangled hair brushing against his face.

"I love you, Jon," she whispered, her arms holding him close. "I love you so much!"

"Love you, mom. No will hurt you," Crane vowed. "Not ever again, I promise."

* * *

The door slammed shut, the metal bolts locking automatically under the door's weight. The first pale rays of dawn still didn't creep through the barred window of the patient's room and Arkham still didn't stir from its sleep. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Crane. I hope you slept well. It's time for our early morning session. I pray you didn't forget," said Dr. Henry Gooding.

He didn't look up from the briefcase he was carrying, heavy with a thick tome on psychotic behavior and a hard case of hypodermic syringes with different vials of medications.

_Let's see, what shall we try today? The woman has been growing increasingly hysterical. That's to be expected given the circumstances_, Gooding thought smugly.

He looked up and was surprised to see the bed where Mrs. Crane slept was empty – and in her place stood Dr. Crane, his eyes icy, his face contemptuous.

"So pleasant of you to drop in so early for a visit, Gooding," Crane said. "Although I hadn't expected you to come at 4 a.m. … That's a bit odd, don't you think? I wonder what sort of 'therapy' merits depriving a patient of her sleep?"

"Crane! You get out of this room this instant and bring back _my_ patient! She is _mine_ if you recall!"

"Yes, you have made that point quite clear, but now it's time for me to make my point clear, Gooding."

"You will make no points unless I make them for you! Now you bring her back and leave this room or you not only will be terminated from Arkham, but barred from psychiatry permanently in Gotham! Don't cross me Crane! I have the connections and I will use them!"

"No doubt you do, Gooding, but once again you underestimate me, as you always have."

Crane coolly placed upon the table his briefcase and snapped it open.

"Like everyone, Gooding, you have ignored me, pushed me aside, bullied me and took credit for all my genius."

"That's enough, Crane!"

"But what you don't understand is I'm quite used to it. You see, I've dealt with that sort of ill treatment my whole life." Crane gave a tightly controlled grin. "In fact, I probably could have endured it for many more years at your hands, that is until you brought in _her._"

At the mention of "her" his grin vanished and a creepy, piercing stare, on par Gooding believed he had seen in the eyes of some of his worst mental patients, was burrowing into Gooding's skull.

"Once you brought in her – my mother – well, let's just say, it was the end. No more Gooding, no more."

Gooding tentatively made his way to the speakercom and pressed the button.

"Nurse," cried Gooding. "Bring me security, _right now_!"

There was no response from the speakercom.

"Nurse!"

"Speakercom has been disabled, as is the door temporarily. The camera video also is on loop from a few hours earlier." Crane smiled indulgently. "Don't worry, Gooding. We are quite assured of our privacy here."

"Okay, Crane, what do you want? You want your precious mother released? Fine!"

"Oh! Is that what you think I want? I'm sorry to give you that false impression, doctor."

"Then what do you want, Crane?"

"I want you to see my mask."

Gooding stared in dumb shock at the young man as he slipped from his briefcase the burlap mask and slowly unfolded it.

"I only have used it on one patient before with great success and, as a fellow psychiatrist, I want your opinion on its future possible use in therapy treatment."

"Have you gone mad, Crane?"

"I'll take that as a rhetorical question."

As he slipped on the mask, he savored watching Gooding fruitlessly press the speakercom button over and over again, shouting into it, screaming for help, yanking with all his strength and weight at the securely locked door.

"Now, Gooding, I want your honest opinion on this 'new therapy' for our patients."

Gooding stopped briefly from his efforts to gaze at him wearing the hideous burlap mask – the guise of Scarecrow before him.

"I want your _FEAR_!"

Gooding screamed even before he inhaled the toxin aimed straight at him.

* * *

Crane felt elated for the first time in many years, although he couldn't show it. At Arkham a somber, almost funereal atmosphere settled upon the staff like a heavy shroud. The nurses didn't smile. The usually flippant, unprofessional behavior of the younger orderlies wasn't present today. All talking was done in hushed tones. Crane had prepared himself long before the official "announcement" when he arrived that morning. He was completely ready when orderlies, nurses and few of the interns swarmed about him, telling him the same thing in their panic: Gooding had been found in Mrs. Crane's cell collapsed on the floor. While Mrs. Crane appeared to be okay, Gooding seemed to have suffered a psychotic breakdown. 

Crane had rehearsed a shocked face several times in the mirror back in his apartment and was confident enough he could pull it off convincingly. In that moment he registered his shock, but quickly appeared strong for them and calm, giving them orders to take Gooding to the sick ward and he would temporarily resume Gooding's responsibilities in his stead until he recovered. The staff seemed soothed by his confidence and calmness in the midst of this unexpected turn of events. Dr. Gooding suffering a sudden psychotic breakdown! Who would have thought? Crane smiled inwardly in his mind while keeping his visage cool, collected and emotionless.

_I am mourning for the unfortunate breakdown of my dear colleague, Dr. Gooding. I must remember that._

But Crane was relishing at last being the head of Arkham Asylum while Gooding, who lorded it over him for so long, now lay glassy-eyed in the sick ward, bound fast in a straightjacket, muttering over and over again "Scarecrow."

Yes, life was very good for Crane now. He snapped closed his briefcase; about ready to make his rounds to his patients, eager to begin his new cure methods when Nurse Susan Parker approached him, very distraught.

"Dr. Crane, so sorry to disturb you. I know you must be so busy, trying to take over for Dr. Gooding. Oh, poor, Dr. Gooding!"

"Yes, I hope he recovers soon and I'll be able to resume my normal duties at Arkham." Crane paused for dramatic effect, appearing sorrowful at his colleague's unfortunate condition. "Is there something you wish to ask me, Miss Parker?"

"Oh, yes. You have a visitor, Dr. Crane. I meant to tell you earlier, but he doesn't necessarily make – ah – appointments."

"What visitor doesn't make appointments? Tell him to wait. I will see him after I make my rounds."

"Uhh, I don't think you can do that – uh – Dr. Crane, sir."

Crane looked at her sharply, but could clearly see this young, petite nurse was terrified at having to contradict him.

"And pray, Miss Parker, what visitor is so important I must interrupt my busy schedule to see him?"

"He really is Dr. Gooding's visitor, Dr. Crane. I wouldn't bother you, only – you did say this morning you were taking on his responsibilities."

"Who – is – he?"

"Carmine Falcone."

Hatred and loathing swelled up in Dr. Crane at the mention of the name though he kept his face a mask, his eyes unreadable.

"And pray, Miss Parker, what is Mr. Falcone doing here?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Crane. You'll have to ask him yourself. He's in Suite 107."

Dr. Crane ground his teeth, his fingers digging into his briefcase.

_Instead of visiting my patients and doing some good I get to see the crime boss of Gotham City who hired the scum I just tortured into madness. Just wonderful!_

Crane briskly walked down the hall, channeling his frustration into his steps until he reached the suite. Before he opened the door he took a deep breath and opened it. Immediately Crane saw the one man responsible for all the pain and suffering in Gotham City sitting right before him on one of the plush leather seats in front of a lacquered walnut table.

"Mr. Falcone, the pleasure is all mine," Crane said smoothly, favoring him with a smile.

"Hey! What is this," Falcone demanded. "Where is Dr. Gooding? I only meet with Gooding."

"I regret to inform you that he is indisposed today. I will be fulfilling his duties until his recovery." Dr. Crane took a seat opposite him and folded his hands. "And what may I assist you with today, Mr. Falcone?"

Falcone leaned back in his leather chair, completely taken aback.

"I don't get this at all! Gooding should have called me if he was going to play hooky today."

"Unfortunately he is unable, Mr. Falcone. He suffered a psychotic breakdown last night. Causes are yet unknown, but the outlook is still good, if I may say so myself." Crane looked at him with his pale blue eyes. "I will be seeing to his treatment myself."

"Well, excuse me while I get out a hanky, but that doesn't help my situation any Mr. – uh?"

"_Dr. Crane._"

"Okay, see here, doc. Gooding has a contract with me and clearly if he's gone nuts, if you say he has, he can't fulfill his end of the bargain, see?"

"Yes, I see. But I fail to observe how this has anything to do with me."

"Well, it might have something to do with you if you shut up and let me talk."

Crane ground his teeth, his eyes piercing while Scarecrow over and over tormented him to use the Fear Toxin on the most evil man in Gotham.

_(You will be saving everyone,_ Scarecrow whispered. _Just think of it!)_

_Then another will take his place just as quickly_, thought Crane. _No, let's first see where he is going with this. In due time we will have him, one way or another._

"Now doc, tomorrow one of my guys is appearing in court. His name is Jimmy Fessanti. Are you familiar with the guy?"

"Yes, serial killer, multiple robberies, heavy mob activity."

"Ah, that's my boy," Falcone crowed. "But you know, doc, the mind is such an unstable thing. The time in prison has proved to be too much for him. Even before this he's been a bit – you know – unbalanced."

"I surmised as much after he shot Adam Tyler when he wouldn't pick up his tab at _Monique Restaurant_."

"Exactly! You see where I'm going with this, doc. He's appearing in court tomorrow and I need you to use those fancy words of yours that he needs to be committed here."

Falcone snapped open his briefcase and slowly turned it towards Crane. It was filled with neat packets of crisp, new thousand dollar bills.

"Now I wasn't expecting to negotiate a new contract. This is not all you will get once you finish the job."

Falcone grabbed one of the packets of thousand dollar bills, thumbing the money for dramatic effect, before shoving it toward Crane.

"That is what you will get to testify in court tomorrow, doc. And this money here," Falcone pointed at the briefcase. "This money is what you will get once my boy is safe and sound in this fine institution of yours."

Crane gazed at the packet of money, then at Falcone.

_Blood money from all the crime and corruption he brings to Gotham._

"Why do you want Mr. Fessanti here?"

"Quit asking questions," Falcone said. "That's my business. You just do your job and get rich, just like Gooding did."

Suddenly Crane imagined having Fessanti, the most notorious serial killer, in his asylum, completely at his mercy.

_I will cure him, like my other patients. In my hands, at last he will meet justice, just like Machiano. And if Falcone sends others to me, they too will be mine! Oh, they will cringe, not realizing what a great good they will serve. In prison they would just rot and what then? They would be released on Gotham to murder, rape and rob again. But in my asylum they will never be free, never escape. Their screams will fill the halls and I will cure him, like Machiano. They will be harmless then, they will hurt no one ever again. I will save Gotham. I will save them all – save them by Fear!_

Falcone smiled indulgently at Crane, like a child who didn't know better.

_Ah, he thinks he has me, like so many others, yet another pawn in his twisted, criminal game. But he won't realize – just like Gooding – until its too late, I am the snake under the flower waiting to strike. I am your favorite dessert you have eaten only to realize it has been laced with arsenic. I am the frail boy you think you can bully and beat and takes any abuse, only to turn into Scarecrow. I am far deadlier than any thug with a gun, any maniacal killer in an alley. I am the enemy you cannot see, the one who hides in the shadows, in the darkest recesses only to emerge when you feel safe and secure. I am the hidden enemy … I am Scarecrow._

"So do we have a deal, doc," Falcone asked smugly, reaching out his hand.

"Yes, I believe we have reached an agreement," Crane said, taking Falcone's hand in his.

_**The End**_

**

* * *

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**Author's Note:** Like any author I find it difficult to let this story go, but I am even more amazed that what started as a fun little diversion turned into such an all-consuming, sprawling epic. It was difficult not to become completely absorbed in Jonathan's descent into madness. Once I began on his journey, I became fascinated in Jonathan's history and weaving a compelling enough story. I hope I have accomplished that.

Thank you all who have had the patience to wait as I continued on it as a work-in-progress and for your continued support and feedback. I couldn't have done it without all your help!

**Blodeuedd:** I cannot thank you enough for all the wonderful reviews you have posted for almost every chapter. Not only were they an excellence source of guidance for me, some days they helped boost my confidence (as well as my spirits) as a writer. It means so much to me that you have taken such an interest in my story since you are such an amazingly talented writer yourself. You have such a wonderful grasp on the character of Crane and your prose is more poetically beautifully rather than gritty, as mine tends to be.

**Jumana: **As a DC comic books fan, I hope you enjoyed this "alternate history" on Crane, though I know it deviated a bit from the "canon." I hope you like what I did with Falcone in this chapter, since we ultimately know where that relationship leads in the movie. ; ) And yes, it does get quite dark with the psychological torture Crane inflicts on Machiano. I actually held back quite a bit on that chapter as amazing as it seems. There's only so much the reader can take and what I can tolerate writing.

**Saiyajin-Neko: **I hope this ending turned out as you had hoped. And now that it is finished, maybe you won't have to stalk me, then again maybe you will if I don't write a sequel. LOL

**Dr. E. Vance: **I hope the following answers all your questions on Emily and thank you for your feedback. I really am a glutton for reviews. : )

**Concerning Emily: **Several of you have expressed either your disappointment in the character of Emily or have asked whether she will return later in the story. As you have noticed by now she has not returned after Jonathan met her in high school. I was doing several things with her character, but I won't bore you with the details. Namely I realized once I was writing her if I kept her around Scarecrow could not maintain a strangle hold on Jonathan's psyche, so I removed her early on from the picture. Needless to say the more I worked on the story, the more I could not see how to fit her back in, which leads me to the next topic …

**Possible Sequel: **I am not sure if I will write one or not. I have worked out a basic plot in my mind right now and it seems to be promising. Emily will be a major character, in fact it will focus on Emily and Jonathan Crane, but it won't be a sappy romance although romance will be involved. ; ) This takes place mostly post "Batman Begins," so Crane certainly has some major issues with Scarecrow and insanity by that point. It should be interesting, but mainly it will depend on the dynamic between the two and if the story works out well. If it doesn't, well I wouldn't have the heart to disappoint you by posting it here.


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